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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643255">setting out (for a new tomorrow)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/racetoanyways/pseuds/racetoanyways'>racetoanyways</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Disney, Disney Employees, Disney World &amp; Disneyland, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prince Charming Bucky Barnes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:27:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>30,868</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/racetoanyways/pseuds/racetoanyways</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers has been working at Disney World since he was nineteen, and he's lost his passion for the faith, trust and pixie dust. It might be down to Bucky Barnes, resident Prince Charming and his sworn enemy, to put the Disney magic back in his heart.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carol Danvers/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Riley/Sam Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. part one</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Whew okay, here's my submission to the (Not) Another Stucky Big Bang 2020! This fic was basically the result of months in lockdown, Endgame pain, and binge-watching The Imagineering Story on Netflix. </p><p>Major credit goes to the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writingstoriesinmyhead">loveliest beta around</a>, who has helped spectacularly with my word hoarding problem. And, of course, so much love to the most incredible artist <a href="https://twitter.com/softestbuck">softestbuck</a>, who I've been so honored to work with on this and who brought Bucky to life so brilliantly.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“To all who come to this happy place, welcome. Here, age relives fond memories of the past, and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future.” - Walt Disney </em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>August</b>
</p><p>There’s trash on the ground. </p><p>An empty Fantasyland ice cream cup, lying on its side and swaying gently in the mid-morning breeze. It’s been kicked a few times; one side collapsing in on itself, but it sways nevertheless.</p><p>Steve has been watching it for nearly five minutes from the Fastpass queue of Peter Pan’s Flight. It has some audacity to be there, like there isn’t a trash can literally every thirty feet of the place. He scratches underneath the collar of his uniform, where the polyester has started to rub at the back of his sweaty neck, and considers leaving his post.</p><p>Natasha probably wouldn’t miss him, since it’s a rare off-peak day and there aren’t hordes of people using Fastpasses, but the heat is getting worse, and he doesn’t want to stray further from the air-conditioned show building than strictly necessary.</p><p>Then again, he <em> could </em>lose his job if there are any undercover managers around.</p><p>He waves to Natasha, letting her know that he’s stepping away for a moment, and she waves him off, preoccupied with explaining the queue timing system to a clueless family. The trash procedure is simple: pass by, sweep it up, drop it in the trash, get a nice little walk and a stretch out of it before going back to greeting kids and pretending he cares when their magic bands don’t scan.</p><p>Old man Walt would be so proud.</p><p>Or not, since -- just as he’s preparing his best Cast Member Clean Up -- the cup is swept up by a gloved hand. All he can do is gawk dumbly as Prince Charming examines the cup, and deposits it into the nearest trash can -- three feet away, <em> seriously? </em>-- with a certain flair that encourages an applause from his small entourage of star struck children.</p><p>Enter Bucky Barnes, stage left.</p><p>Fantasyland’s resident Prince Charming, as charming as he may first appear, has been the sole bane of Steve’s existence for nearly two and a half years. He’d been hoping that working the early shift would mean avoiding him, since he’s usually preoccupied with breakfast character dining at this time, but life apparently isn’t so kind.</p><p>Behind his smile, he grits his teeth so hard that it hurts. “Good morning, Your Highness. I was just about to do that.”</p><p>He bends in half a little and, yeah, his pride takes a hit, but he isn’t about to ruin it for the kids; he’s not <em> evil </em>.</p><p>Bucky waves a hand, “Oh, it’s no bother. I’m always happy to help my citizens.”</p><p>Steve sees a flash of red, but takes a steadying breath. “Maybe you should get back to your more <em> princely </em>duties.”</p><p>Or, in less PG-13 terms, <em> fuck off </em>.</p><p>Bucky seems to get the message. “Good day.”</p><p>“Good day,” Steve replies, and side-steps out of the way so that Bucky and his entourage can continue on their journey through Fantasyland.</p><p>Natasha grins at him when he returns to his post. There’s no doubt in his mind that she saw the whole thing. She abandons her position at the empty queue to be within earshot of him. “Flirting with the prince again?”</p><p>“I wasn’t flirting,” Steve scowls. “He’s insufferable.”</p><p>“Why not?” She jabs him in the side and points towards the carousel, where Bucky is helping a little girl onto one of the horses. “He’s <em> charming </em>.”</p><p>“I hate you.”</p><p>-</p><p>During his training, Bucky had been told that the character dining experiences are the worst part of the job, but he would argue that they’re some of the best. He gets to spend hours in the beautifully air conditioned Grand Floridian Resort, providing guests with some light entertainment as they dine on their five-star meals. And after a while, he’s usually shucked to the side for solo Princess photo ops. So is the life of a prince, so tragically underrated.</p><p>He catches the eye of Connie, resident Cinderella, over the guest’s heads as she slips between the tables towards him. He slips his arm around her waist, ensuring that his hand sits at a respectable spot on her hip, and mutters under his breath, “How long until we can eat?”</p><p>Her princess-perfect smile doesn’t falter as she replies, “Far too long, Mr Charming.”</p><p>He hides his laughter in her hair until Darcy, their college program-supplied character host, approaches them. She’s followed by a slender brunette woman and a young girl who is trying her best to disappear behind her mom’s legs.</p><p>“This is Emily,” Darcy says. “She wanted to say hello, but she’s feeling a little shy.”</p><p>For a twenty-year-old, Connie is ridiculously good with the kids. She instantaneously switches into Cinderella, and crouches to the girl’s level, reaches out just enough not to startle her. “It’s lovely to meet you, Princess Emily.”</p><p>Despite prompting from both her mom and Darcy, Emily presses her lips into a hard line and keeps her eyes firmly on the floor. Darcy gives a gentle tug on her hand, urging her forward, and her face twists suddenly. Bucky’s eldest-of-three instincts kick in just in time for him to get in between Connie and the girl, placing his pants in the unfortunate firing line of Emily’s dinner.</p><p>Connie makes a small noise of surprise, and the entire room springs to action.</p><p>Cleaning staff swarm them, and Darcy guides the girl and her mom away as Bucky is whisked away by another character attendant. She marches him through a cast-only door which leads them through the kitchen into the green room, where a costume attendant is already waiting. She orders him to strip to his boxers, hands him a standard cast member uniform and sends him back to the park to, presumably, think about what he’s done.</p><p>He thinks he was pretty heroic, all things considered.</p><p>The intricacies of the tunnel system that runs underneath the Magic Kingdom are a mystery to most, even those who have worked there for years. The sheer volume of people passing through at any moment is enough to make anyone dizzy, and had been the sole reason why he’d once ended up in the Hall of Presidents in full Prince Charming get-up, which had been a very interesting thing to explain to management. He’s learned his route now, though, and it doesn’t take him long to get back to the locker room near the mouth of the tunnels. It’s surprisingly empty for early evening, so Sam is unashamedly changing into a garish purple waistcoat. An even brighter jacket is hanging on the door of his locker.</p><p> “Facilier’s back on the roster, then?” Bucky runs his fingers over the jacket’s hem; he’s always awestruck by the intricate detail in the costumes, and secretly jealous of the people who get far more interesting costumes than he does. And, currently, people whose costumes aren’t covered in kid-vomit. Gross.</p><p>Sam whirls around with a hand to his chest. “Christ, don’t scare me like that.”</p><p>He takes a good look at Bucky’s outfit, then, and cocks an eyebrow. “What’s with the outfit? You betray the crown or something?”</p><p>“Or something.” Bucky grimaces and spins in his locker code. “You know how they say never work with children or animals?”</p><p>Sam adopts a look reminiscent of a proud parent, “Baby’s first Code V.”</p><p>“You got it.”</p><p>He digs out the hoodie and jeans he’d worn to work this morning, slyly watching over his shoulder as Sam transforms into Dr Facilier and feeling slightly jealous that he gets to work the Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party. Just as he’s pulling on his socks and considering getting a last minute ticket to tonight’s party, the locker next to his jolts open, followed by a pointed sigh, which can only mean one thing.</p><p>“Steve!”</p><p>Bucky slams his locker harder than he means it to be, because the small blonde jumps nearly a foot in the air and clutches his hand over his chest.</p><p><em> Well done, Bucky, you’ve fucked it up already </em>.</p><p>“Sorry, oh my god,” Bucky says, waiting for Steve to recover from the shock before he says. “Uh… I was meaning to talk to you, actually.”</p><p>Steve doesn’t respond, expression unmoving as he unzips a backpack in his locker. Bucky perseveres.</p><p>“I wanted to talk about what happened this morning? With the trash.”</p><p>Steve undoes the buttons on his garish Fantasyland costume and swaps it out for a white t-shirt. “Okay.”</p><p>“I just wanted to say sorry if I embarrassed you, or came on too strong or something. I know you were just trying to do your job; I shouldn’t have made it harder for you.”</p><p>“Okay,” Steve repeats, pulling on a pair of dark wash jeans.</p><p>“They were Make-A-Wish kids, and I wanted to make sure they got the best experience, y’know?” Bucky rushes. “They love stuff like that, when the character is real, so I just wanted to…”</p><p>“I get it,” Steve slams his locker. “Whatever, I wasn’t offended.”</p><p>He tugs his backpack on and heads to the door. By the time Bucky calls after him he’s gone, without so much as a glance backwards.</p><p>Sam pats him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>Bucky watches the doorway as if Steve will materialize there again. “Why does he hate me so much?”</p><p>Sam shrugs on his jacket, “People hate face characters.”</p><p>“But he likes you!”</p><p>“Hey,” Sam puts his hands up. “I’m on attractions nine months a year, too. Don’t act like I’m one of you.”</p><p>Bucky sighs. Steve might be the spikiest, 5’5” packet of condensed rage that he’s ever met, but there’s a certain animosity towards Bucky that he doesn’t have for other people. It feels different, <em> personal, </em>and Bucky can’t for the life of him remember what he’s done to deserve it.</p><p>He feels Sam’s hand on his back again, “Party time. Good luck with Steve.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>September</b>
</p><p>Whoever decided that Magic Kingdom should open at eight on a Monday morning deserves to be hunted for sport, Steve decides when he steps off the West Clock bus on the first Monday of September. The morning dew leaves an almost-chill in the air, but he knows that within an hour he’ll be melting in the heat, so he makes the most of it while he can. It only takes a withered glare at the security guard for him to keep his coffee, and swiping his ID at clock-in tells him that he’s made it with forty-five seconds to spare. His somehow perfect record remains untarnished. Great.</p><p>The utilidor is eerily empty first thing in the morning. Steve hits the whimsical bell on the counter of the costume department and takes a long sip of his coffee while he waits.</p><p>A muffled shout comes from somewhere deep behind rows of costume rails, and it takes a moment for Angie’s dark hair to pop out amongst a row of Fantasyland costumes, a Jack Sparrow hat balancing jauntily on her head.</p><p>“Steve!” she exclaims through a set of pins clutched in her teeth. “Pan’s Flight?”</p><p>“Small World,” he replies.</p><p>She nods, shoots him a pin-filled grin, and disappears back into the costumes.</p><p>When she emerges again, the pins are gone, and there’s a bundle of bright blue and white fabric in her arms. She deposits the pirate hat on a costume rail as she passes by and places the bundle on the counter between them.</p><p>“One piping hot Fantasyland costume, fresh out of the dryer.”</p><p>Picking up the costume confirms that it is, in fact, slightly warm. “You’re a saint, Ang.”</p><p>“I know,” she smirks.</p><p>Early rope drop means even earlier breakfast reservations for Cinderella’s Royal Table, a character dining experience inside the castle, so the locker room is already teeming with half-costumed face characters shuffling about to music from somebody’s portable speaker. The long mirror against the back wall is entirely occupied with half made-up princesses, but at the end sits one lone prince, the one prince that makes Steve want to turn on his heel and go change in the bathroom.</p><p>Bucky meets his eye in the mirror and raises his hand in a wave, smiling that stupid derisive smile that makes Steve’s vision go funny. He opens his locker; he can’t deal with this so early in the day. Mercifully, Bucky gets the message and gives Steve a delightfully lonely ten minutes to get changed and up the staircase behind Columbia Harbor House before he has to interact with anyone else.</p><p>Seemingly materialising out of nowhere, Natasha slings one of her long, slim arms around his shoulders. “Ready for another day of making magic?”</p><p>“No,” he deadpans. “I actually deflect magic. My body totally rejects it, I think it’s an allergy.”</p><p>Natasha tips her head back in a laugh, gracefully exposing the long column of her throat. He’s always been in awe of how she can make anything seem perfect; even the most raucous laughter or vicious complaint; or the godforsaken Fantasyland uniforms. “Normally, I’d call bullshit, but I honestly think it would explain a lot.”</p><p>Carol Danvers, a Jungle Cruise skipper who spends most of her free time in or around Fantasyland, is soaking up the early-morning sun when they eventually reach the entrance of It’s a Small World. Despite her uniform, she looks remarkably at home. She brings her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun and calls to them, “What’s old man Steve complaining about now?”</p><p>Natasha removes her arm from around Steve, and rushes to Carol to press her face dramatically into her shoulder. “Save me from Steve’s negativity, I can’t take it anymore… My life-force… is being drained… I can feel myself slipping away…”</p><p>“You’re rude,” Steve says as he catches up to them, with an accusatory finger in her direction.</p><p>She smiles back, “You love me.”</p><p>He pokes his tongue out at her and doesn’t respond but, yes, he does. </p><p>-</p><p>On the third floor of Cinderella castle, up a cast-only staircase tucked away in a narrow service corridor, there’s a message etched into a window frame. This particular window has an uninhibited view of Fantasyland, stretching as far as Belle’s village on the far side, to the border on the other where it melts into Frontierland.</p><p>The message, scratched into the surface with maybe a key or some other sharp object slipped past security, is simple:</p><p>
  <b>MAKE THEM SMILE.</b>
</p><p>It’s a rather innocuous message to etch into a wall at Disney World, but there’s something about it that intrigues Bucky. He’d stumbled upon it by accident during one of his first Royal Table appearances, and it had somehow managed to keep him grounded when he felt so out of his depth. He doesn’t know who put it there, whether it was a previous prince or custodial staff, but it had quickly turned a random service corridor into a place of refuge.</p><p>In the morning sun, the castle casts a monstrous shadow over the park. As day breaks, the entire place seems to rumble with magic, which simmers on the surface until the park opens, when it will inevitably burst into rambunctious technicolor.</p><p>He doesn’t come up here specifically to spy on Steve, but the fact that it has a perfect view of the walkway where Steve works makes it difficult to miss him as he enjoys the short period of downtime before the park officially opens. Bucky has even seen him laugh a few times, full-bodied and beautiful, and finds himself wishing that he could be the cause of that laughter just <em> once </em>.</p><p>“You look like someone’s kicked your cat.”</p><p>It never takes Connie very long to find him up here, after the first time she’d thought to look. She squashes her dress flat so that she can maneuver it through the tight hallway, and perches delicately on the windowsill next to him. Even now, she looks like she belongs, like she’s <em> actually </em>Cinderella looking out over her kingdom.</p><p>Okay, so maybe his daydreaming is going a little far.</p><p>“I’m fine,” he says. “Just thinking.”</p><p>“You do that a lot.”</p><p>“A bit of introspection goes a long way. You’d be surprised.”</p><p>She eyes him. “What’s going on? You’ve got something on your mind, I can tell.”</p><p>She knows him far too well considering they’ve only been working together for the best part of six months, but he supposes spending every day in each other’s pockets does that to people.</p><p>“It’s Steve,” he says quietly.</p><p>Her eyebrows furrow a little, “Steve?”</p><p>Cast members in a whole host of colorful uniforms have started to float across Fantasyland towards their respective posts, and it takes Bucky a moment to locate Steve again, engrossed in an intense game of Ninja with a Jungle Cruise skipper. He points towards him. “Steve.”</p><p>It takes her a moment to spot him. “Oh. He’s on Attractions?”</p><p>“He’s the youngest Senior CM in the entire park,” Bucky says with a strange amount of pride. The skipper catches Steve’s hand and throws her arms in the air victoriously. He’s too far away to see properly, but he knows Steve is pouting. “And the biggest asshole.”</p><p>“I’m confused,” she replies. “You’re upset because a Senior CM was an asshole to you?”</p><p>Bucky shakes his head. “It’s not just… he’s…”</p><p>“...You have a crush on him?”</p><p>“No!” he snaps. She purses her lips, but doesn’t interrupt. “He just hates me, and I don’t know why. He’s got this weird grudge and I don’t know what I’ve done.”</p><p>“Have you asked?” she asks in a calm, measured tone that he’s sure only she can use without sounding patronizing.</p><p>He nods, “I keep trying to speak to him and he just totally blows me off…”</p><p>“No, Bucky,” she interrupts. “Have you <em> asked him </em>?”</p><p>Steve doesn’t tend to say much to him, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he’s never tried to ask him about what’s going on. He’s asked him about other things, sure, and he’s apologized more than once, but he’s never just asked. Plain and simple.</p><p>He pushes her shoulder gently, “I think you’re right.”</p><p>“I’m always right, you should listen to me more,” she beams.</p><p>
  
</p><p>-</p><p>Singing animatronic children are going to kill Steve one day. And not even in a cool, robot-uprising way.</p><p>The first sign of trouble is the sudden roar from the show building, and the second is the queue growing exponentially as the ride safety measures cause the boats to become backed up at the load. The third, and worst, is an irritated Natasha pushing her way through the queue of unhappy guests. </p><p>“Code 101. Boats got stuck in Europe,” she mutters under the hubbub. “And you’ve drawn the short straw.”</p><p>“You’re joking.”</p><p>That’s how he ends up donning a pair of rubber waders and hopping into the murky ride water to push each boat to the nearest dock. Some of the guests cheer him on, which strangely doesn’t help, and he can see more than one hopeful vlogger filming the entire pitiful event.</p><p>“Are we gonna die?” a wide-eyed child asks him.</p><p>“Not unless a sea monster attacks,” Steve replies as he continues guiding the boat along the ride track. “But I’m really good at fighting them off.”</p><p>Natasha waves at him from the dock when he approaches, and he scowls at her as she wrenches the lap bars open. Wanda, a CP student delegating Fastpasses, can barely hide her amusement as he trudges to the next boat.</p><p>The children are still singing. He hates this fucking ride.</p><p>It’s really not a mystery why he’s in a bad mood when he finally heads for an early lunch break. Evacuating rides is never a dignified experience, and the park’s rubber waders are unreliable at best, so his work shoes are nearly full of water and squelching with every step.</p><p>He’s just about made it to the cafeteria -- semi-affectionately known as The Mouse amongst cast members -- before he becomes the victim of a brutal ambush.</p><p>“Big Steve! Just the man I’m looking for!”</p><p>Steve spins on his sodden heels and plasters on the biggest false smile just in time to come face-to-face with Tony Stark, barrelling towards him with far much energy for a near-forty year old man. He sometimes wonders what Tony takes to be so upbeat all the time, and how much convincing it would take to let him have some of it.</p><p>“Hi, Tony,” he says as he’s swept into a tight hug. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”</p><p>Over Tony’s shoulder, he sees a mousy-haired kid skid to a stop beside them, having been racing to keep up with Tony’s overzealous gait. It’s a familiar situation. Being the youngest Creative Executive in Disney history -- a fact which he is not shy to remind people of -- Tony is in high demand from college grads hoping to get a permanent position. It’s no secret that Disney likes to hire from within, and it’s also no secret that Tony loves being in charge, so it works.</p><p>“I wasn’t planning on it, Steve-O, I’ll be honest.” Tony finally puts him down, allowing him to breathe freely again. “But I had to come find you. This is Peter.”</p><p>The kid politely shakes Steve’s hand. His voice is surprisingly deep considering he looks like he’s still got one foot in high school. “It’s nice to meet you.”</p><p>“You too,” Steve says, and then to Tony, in a marvellous display of intelligence and wit, “Uh?”</p><p>“Peter’s our newest Imagineering recruit.” Tony claps Peter on the shoulder proudly. “But I think he needs some firsthand experience with rides before he’s allowed to design them. You get me?”</p><p>Steve does get him, and he doesn’t like where it’s going. “So… you want him to work at the park?”</p><p>“Bingo!” Tony says. “And Ms Potts told me you have a vacancy in Fantasyland?”</p><p>They don’t. As a Senior CM, Steve knows this for a fact, but he <em> also </em>knows that Pepper -- the Magic Kingdom Park Executive and Tony’s long-suffering wife -- is one of the nicest people on the planet.</p><p>He also knows Tony, and the look he gets when he wants something. Which is exactly the look he’s giving him right now.</p><p>“So, you want me to…”</p><p>“Show him the ropes,” Tony finishes his sentence.</p><p>Tony hands Peter off to him like a parent dropping their child at daycare. Intern training <em> is </em> essentially glorified babysitting; he’d done enough of it when he took over as the College Program Liaison for one summer while Maria was on maternity leave.</p><p>“What do we have to do first?” Peter asks the moment Tony bids them goodbye. </p><p>“Lunch,” Steve states, heading to The Mouse without much care for whether or not Peter’s following him.</p><p>He follows tight on Steve’s heels. “So, how long have you worked here?”</p><p>Steve looks up at the menu board and sighs. This is going to be a long day.</p><p>-</p><p>Rope drop, the ceremony which opens the park every morning, is a very serious affair at Magic Kingdom. It’s one that Steve usually avoids at all costs.</p><p>On a normal day he wouldn’t worry about it, since he either works the later shift or is at his post at a ride, but Tony wants Peter to be well-rounded in his knowledge of the park’s inner workings, so Pepper has moved them to early-morning guest greeting at the castle. Which means Steve has to stand around in the heat, answer Peter’s constant stream of questions, <em> and </em>watch a host of costumed characters mouth along to a cheery song about welcoming the guests to the kingdom. It’s a less than ideal way to spend his Thursday morning. </p><p>Peter watches the stage with wide-eyed wonder as the Fairy Godmother introduces Mickey Mouse to start the celebrations. He looks about as enamored as the kids in the audience, which prompts Steve to ask, “Have you never seen this before?”</p><p>Peter shakes his head, “My first time coming here was last week with Mr Stark.”</p><p>“Oh.” Steve turns back to the stage. Peter’s nametag helpfully identifies his hometown as Queens, New York, but Steve had assumed he would have at least been on vacation to the park before.</p><p>The princesses parade onto the stage, followed closely by their respective princes as the crowd cheer for them each in turn. The procession places Bucky and Connie directly in front of them, waving out at the crowd before the music kicks in and they begin to step and twirl around each other mesmerizingly.</p><p>It’s really no surprise that Bucky had only done one audition for Charming; he was born for it. He dances like it’s second nature, spinning Connie under his arm and expertly avoiding stepping on her gown when he pulls her back towards him, hand sitting respectfully on the flat of her back. The chemistry between them is electric, and the smile he has for her is blinding even from where Steve is standing. His stupid, cocky smile only accentuates the facial symmetry that Steve is certain is some kind of biological anomaly.</p><p>The Godmother stops conducting, cueing the music to end with a flourish and a flurry of fireworks to burst from the castle, sending a cheer through the audience. Bucky is still smiling, face mere inches away from Connie’s. The tension between them is so palpable, it’s a wonder it hasn’t been picked up on and squashed by management, like they usually do when cast members get too close; he’s known of a few royal couples fired for getting too comfortable.</p><p>If only Steve could be so lucky.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>October</b>
</p><p>At this point, Bucky’s pretty sure he deserves a damn Oscar.</p><p>Most of his life he hadn’t been involved in anything remotely related to acting. It isn’t because he wasn’t interested, necessarily, but his small Brooklyn neighborhood wasn’t exactly the rainbow capital. His high school had a fairly decent theater program, but he mostly watched on from the outside; joining would have been more hassle than it was worth, and at that point he’d been doing anything he could to keep flying under the radar until graduation.</p><p>Sometimes he wonders if that’s why he was so drawn to Disney after graduating college. While it hadn’t been the most natural next step from an engineering degree, it was a good way to keep himself rooted in Orlando, and he was pretty sure <em> anyone </em>would jump at the chance to work there. Maybe it’s the reason why when he hears that Grant Ward’s wife has gone into labor two weeks early, he practically sprints to Casting to put his name down to be rotated in as Gaston.</p><p>He loves Charming, he really does, but he needs a change of scenery.</p><p>“Are you sure this has nothing to do with <em> you know who </em>?” Sam asks him before Bucky’s first Halloween party shift, while he’s pinning down the front of his black Gaston wig. Bucky can see him in the mirror, fussing with the waistline of his Facilier pants.</p><p>Mickey’s Not So Scary Party has everybody doing overtime, but Bucky hadn’t actually found out that Steve would be working it until <em> after </em>he’d signed up. If he’s secretly hoping he’ll get a chance to talk to him, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.</p><p>“Absolutely nothing,” he says. “I love Beauty and the Beast, and I love Halloween, and it’s extra money.”</p><p>“And you wanna talk to Steve.”</p><p>Bucky drops his hands, and hairpins clatter to the table, “Is that such a bad thing? You’re the one who wants me to talk to him.”</p><p>Sam puts his hands up, and the long-fingered Facilier gloves make the gesture look borderline ridiculous. “Hey, all I said was good luck. You came to that conclusion on your own.”</p><p>Bucky looks at himself in the mirror, and he nearly doesn’t recognise himself. Not just his costume, but <em> him </em>. He looks confused, and almost pathetic. “So you don’t think I should talk to him?”</p><p>“Hey, I didn’t say that,” Sam cups his shoulder supportively. They make a real picture in the mirror; Dr Facilier and Gaston, being old pals. “Do what you gotta do. It’s your call.”</p><p>-</p><p>“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”</p><p>Halloween is Steve’s least favorite season. It probably stems from some deep-rooted hatred of the holiday that comes from being a chronically lonely child, but he’s not really a fan of <em> any </em> of it, especially not the overtime that he’s expected to take for the after-hours party. He can think of a thousand better ways to spend his evenings than standing outside Gaston’s Tavern handing out candy to guests who barely regard him besides shaking their treat bags in his face. </p><p><em> At least Prince Charming isn’t seasonally appropriate </em> , had been his thought while dumping out boxes of candy into the treat bin. <em> At least Bucky won’t be there </em>.</p><p>He genuinely thinks he’s cursed at this point, like just the mere thought of Bucky makes him appear. </p><p>Peter looks up from the M&amp;M’s in his hand. “What?”</p><p>Bucky has stopped to sign an autograph book and do some ridiculous adlib that involves flexing his padded-out arms. Somehow, Steve hates him even more as a different character. Peter follows his eyeline and hums in understanding as a family comes by them holding out their treat bags.</p><p>“Happy Halloween,” Peter says to them, and then, once they’re gone. “You really hate him, don’t you?”</p><p>Steve scoops another handful of candy out of the bin. “I don’t hate him. I’d just prefer if he wasn’t…”</p><p>He makes a vague gesture with his arms meant to symbolize <em> everywhere </em>, and Peter nods.</p><p>“Right. So, you hate him.”</p><p>“I didn’t say that!”</p><p>Steve is too busy squabbling with Peter to catch the moment that Bucky passes by them, but they’re close enough to his meeting spot that Carol, character host for the evening, can stand beside them. </p><p>“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” she says. “I didn’t realise Grant wouldn’t be here.”</p><p>“Traitor,” he replies, but there’s no heat behind it.</p><p>-</p><p>Bucky really doesn’t understand why Gaston has to ride through the Halloween parade on a horse. He would have thought the Headless Horseman would be impressive enough, but apparently not. It’s not like he’s never been on a horse before, he’s had the training, but he’s never done it in red spandex, or in front of an audience down the middle of a street.</p><p>Right down the middle of Main Street, USA on a horse. What a cliche.</p><p>“This is Bessie,” the handler, whose name tag reads <em> Sharon </em>, says, with a gesture between them as if expecting them to shake hands. “You ready?”</p><p>He pats Bessie’s nose and swallows his apprehension -- horses can sense fear, right? “As I’ll ever be.”</p><p>“Don’t be nervous.” She guides his hand to the rein on the side of Bessie’s head. So, horses <em> do </em>sense fear. “Just breathe and relax, and she’ll do the same. I’ll be right here with you to make sure she stays on track.”</p><p>Unable to talk out of paralysing anxiety, he secures his foot in the stirrup hanging at Bessie’s side. He takes one steadying breath and pushes up, swinging his other leg over and landing on her back. His free foot searches for the other stirrup, but his costume boot doesn’t have any grip on the sole and slips out. He tries again, and this time he can’t even find it, and he can see the Headless Horseman riding out to start the parade, and Bessie is whinnying beneath him and he <em> can’t fucking find it </em>.</p><p>“Hey, hey, you’re okay.”</p><p>He’d shut his eyes without realising, so he doesn’t see the source of the voice as a hand touches the back of his ankle, gently guiding his foot in the right direction. With his foot secure, he can finally breathe again. He takes a long, steadying breath, feels Bessie breathe in tandem beneath him, and he calms down.</p><p>When he blinks his eyes open, the last person he expects to see is <em> Steve </em>. There’s this little concerned line between his eyebrows, and his left hand is still lingering on Bucky’s calf, and his eyes are so big and so blue looking up at him that Bucky thinks he might hyperventilate again.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>“Steve?” he asks, because <em> what the fuck?  </em></p><p>“You were panicking, so I helped,” Steve explains simply, quickly. The <em> don’t read into it </em>is silent but there, an ever-present undercurrent.</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>Steve smiles for a split second, just long enough for Bucky to catch it, and pats Bessie’s nose once before heading back to his spot at the back of the parade.</p><p>So, Steve Rogers does have a heart. Who would have guessed?</p><p>-</p><p>Steve should have known helping Bucky would be a bad idea. The moment he’d seen Bucky starting to freak out, he’d felt like he needed to help -- not because of Bucky, because he doesn’t care, but because he knows enough about horses to know that having a panic attack on top of one is probably not a good idea, and it would have been a shame if the poor horse had had to get put down. That’s the only reason he’d helped. For the horse.</p><p>Apparently Bucky doesn’t understand this, because he seems to think they’re <em> friends </em>now, or something. He doesn’t talk to him much backstage, but whenever he sees Steve he gets this smug smile that makes Steve want to punch him right in his perfect mouth. It’s like he’s discovered some secret, and has to keep reminding Steve that he knows about it.</p><p>There’s no secret, of course.</p><p>“He’s really grateful,” Carol says one evening, while Bucky is entertaining a crowd by lifting an empty stroller onto his shoulder.</p><p>“I would have done it for anyone,” Steve replies.</p><p>“But you did it for <em> him </em>,” she sings. “It’s kinda romantic, don’t you think?”</p><p>Peter chuckles, which turns into a bad fake cough under Steve’s glare.</p><p>-</p><p>A few days later, after the shortest and least rewarding weekend of Steve’s life, Bucky-Gaston leans against the wall beside Steve with a sleazy grin. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”</p><p>“Fuck <em> off </em>,” Steve hisses.</p><p>Bucky chuckles, low and hearty and somehow still in character, “Suit yourself, sweetheart.”</p><p>He strolls away to find someone else to bother, and Peter smirks.</p><p>“Not a word,” Steve warns.</p><p>“Not a word,” Peter agrees, although he won’t wipe that smirk off his face.</p><p>-</p><p>The next week, when the sun has gone down and Steve is refilling the treat bin for the third time, Bucky sidles over and rests one elbow on top of his head. Steve swats him away like a wasp; he isn’t even <em> that much </em>shorter.</p><p>“Oh, come on, Stevie, my arms are tired,” Bucky says, a hint of his regular voice seeping through his character. There aren’t many guests around to hear it, but Steve’s sure they wouldn’t have caught it anyway.</p><p>“Go rest ‘em on something else, I’m busy,” he says. “And it’s Steve!”</p><p>-</p><p>The Adventureland/Liberty Square cast Halloween party, held every Halloween in The Diamond Horseshoe after the doors close on the final Mickey’s Not So Scary Party, is rumored to be the stuff of legends. Steve doesn’t quite believe it; working in Fantasyland doesn’t make him eligible for an invite, anyway, but even if it did he wouldn’t be interested. He prefers to spend his Halloween night like every other evening; at home, with a glass of wine and reruns of <em> Real Housewives </em>.</p><p>“Carol said she can get us both in,” Nat says to him one afternoon, over their lunch in the Mouse.</p><p>“It’s not exactly my scene,” Steve says.</p><p>“<em> Nothing </em> is your scene.”</p><p>He puts down his sandwich, wiping his face with a napkin, “Why do you even want me there? I’m just gonna bring you down.”</p><p>“Not if you get into the Halloween spirit,” she replies, reaching out to catch a bit of mayo that he had missed in the corner of his mouth.</p><p>He shakes her off, and wipes his mouth himself. “Never. Nope. Not happening.”</p><p>“It’ll be fun!” she says. “Come on, Steve. We could be the Three Caballeros.”</p><p>“No way. Even <em> if </em>I come, I’m not dressing up,” he deadpans.</p><p>Her face lights up, and his mistake quickly dawns on him. “So you’ll come?”</p><p>“I didn’t say that.”</p><p>“You <em> so </em>did!”</p><p>“Fine,” he says, knowing there’s no other way to get her off his back. “I’ll come, but I’m not dressing up.”</p><p>“I’ll talk to Angie,” she says.</p><p>“Don’t push it.”</p><p>As it turns out, it’s embarrassingly easy to convince him. Which is how he finds himself leaning against a table in The Diamond Horseshoe in a garish yellow suit and top hat, holding a plastic cup of lemonade. The tables have been cleared to the sides to make space for a makeshift dance floor, which is full of cast members in fancy dress, dancing to an overzealous DJ playing what sounds like a remix of Poor Unfortunate Souls. </p><p>He was right, this really isn’t his scene. </p><p>He watches Natasha and Carol spin each other around the dancefloor, laughing when Carol’s hair flies in her face and gets stuck in her red lipstick. They haven’t strayed too far away from Steve, probably for the sake of being polite, so he can hear them laughing even over the bass thrumming through the building. Part of him wants to join them, but he knows he’d only make a fool of himself; he’s always had two left feet.</p><p>“Jose Carioca, right?”</p><p>Steve really shouldn’t be surprised that Bucky managed to get into the party, even though there are no other face characters invited. He’s got a habit of being in places he doesn’t belong.</p><p>“I’m not interested,” he says.</p><p>Bucky sighs and leans back on the table, the smell of alcohol and something that might be tobacco on him makes Steve feel vaguely sick. “You’re not very easy to be friends with, you know that?”</p><p>Steve sips his drink, “Funnily enough.”</p><p>A group of cast members, that Steve assumes are from Jungle Cruise, join Carol and Nat on the dancefloor, and Steve watches as Carol hugs each of them in turn, hoping that Bucky will take the hint and go away of his own accord.</p><p>He doesn’t. If anything, he only moves closer. “I’ve spent two years trying to figure out what I’ve done to make you hate me so much.”</p><p>“Wow,” Steve deadpans. “Maybe you should give up on that one; you’re starting to sound desperate.”</p><p>Bucky moves closer again, until Steve can feel the alcohol-sticky heat radiating off him. His head spins, and he takes another sip of his drink to stop himself from taking a swing at the man. Yeah, Bucky’s got about six inches on him, but what Steve lacks in stature, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He’s pretty sure he could take him.</p><p>“You think I’m desperate?”</p><p>Steve meets his eye to prove he’s not backing down. “I think you’re a homophobe who’s desperate to get under my skin. Well, bad luck. I’ve got a zero-tolerance policy for that shit, ‘s a waste of my time.”</p><p>Bucky does the last thing that Steve expects: he <em> laughs </em>. He’s seemed vaguely amused by the entire exchange, but this laugh is far more than that. He doubles over, wheezing like he’s just been told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and Steve’s blood boils. He would have expected better, even from him.</p><p>He crosses his arms. “I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you, buddy. I swear to god, I’ll…”</p><p>“No, Steve,” Bucky manages to control his laughter long enough to interrupt. “I’m not… I’m <em> gay </em>.”</p><p>Steve’s brain short-circuits. “You’re gay?”</p><p>Bucky laughs again, and Steve frowns. “Stop laughing at me.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Bucky barely stifles his laughter by clasping his hand over his mouth for a moment. “I’m not laughing <em> at </em>you, I just -- I don’t know how you couldn’t have known. I’ve been so obvious.”</p><p>“Well, obviously not,” Steve retorts, although he feels like his entire world is shifted off its axis. “What was I meant to think, exactly? You’ve spent the last two weeks flirting with me to make fun of me…”</p><p>“You thought I was flirting with you to make fun of you?”</p><p>Steve scoffs. “You weren’t?”</p><p>Bucky’s expression becomes suddenly serious. If he didn’t know him, Steve would think he was sheepish. “Well, I…”</p><p>Something in Steve shifts with the sudden soft tone of his voice, the sincerity that laces itself throughout the two words and the minute furrow of his brow, and for the briefest of moments he entertains the possibility that Bucky has been sincere this whole time.</p><p>That’s all it is: a moment. Before it can flourish and send Steve into a tailspin, Carol is interrupting them rather spectacularly by careening into Steve’s side in a drunken tirade of giggles and the fruity smell of the cocktails she’s been drinking all night. “What’s goin’ on over here? You havin’ fun without us, Steve?”</p><p>“Never,” he assures her, letting her tuck her arm around his waist and rest her head in the crook of his neck. “Thought you were dancing.”</p><p>“Too drunk,” she sighs. “Too dizzy.”</p><p>Bucky regards her amusedly, “You okay there, Carol?”</p><p>She throws one arm out to clumsily cup his shoulder, but miscalculates and ends up smacking him unceremoniously on the arm before it drops to her side again. “Y’know, I am <em> so </em> glad you’re here. You and Steve have… a <em> lot </em>of shit to sort out.”</p><p>Steve cringes, but Bucky just smirks behind the rim of his cup and says, “Oh, do we now?”</p><p>“Yes, you do,” she confirms. Her eyes widen suddenly and she straightens up, very nearly over-balancing before Steve steadies her. “Wait, am I interrupting something? Were you two, like…?”</p><p>She gestures between them vaguely, some lewd meaning behind her words. Bucky’s bemused smile only grows, and Steve pushes at her. “No, we weren’t. Go back to your girlfriend, you heathen.”</p><p>“Steve!” she gasps. “She is <em> not </em>my girlfriend!”</p><p>With a final clumsy wink, she chucks a peace sign in their direction and stumbles back over to Natasha, who has found her way into some kind of dance circle. “I don’t know what gets into her when she’s drunk.”</p><p>When Steve looks at Bucky, his eyes are fixed on his phone. The screen illuminates his face as a beacon of light in the darkness of the party, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip.</p><p>“Is everything okay?” Steve asks, on sheer impulse.</p><p>Bucky looks up at him, suddenly unsettled. The fingers of his left hand tap against the back of his phone, his eyes flitting across Steve’s face before glancing back at his phone screen, and then up again. “I have to go.”</p><p>Steve couldn’t explain where his sudden disappointment comes from, or why he finds it so difficult to mask as he replies with an ever-so-eloquent, “Oh.”</p><p>Bucky’s expression shifts, and he reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a pen. “Hold your hand out?”</p><p>Steve does, letting Bucky scribble on the back of his palm. When he gets his hand back, ten numbers stand out blue and proud against his pale skin.</p><p>“Let me know when she’s home safe, yeah?” Bucky nods towards the dance floor.</p><p>“Sure,” he says, dumbfounded. “Goodnight.”</p><p>“Night, Steve,” Bucky replies, with the hint of a smile, and ducks away through the crowd.</p><p> </p><p>Getting Carol and Natasha back to his apartment is like getting two toddlers to the dentist, but after some great difficulty he wrangles them onto the bus and through his front door. Carol immediately falls face-first onto the first couch she stumbles across, and Natasha has the sense to kick off her shoes before she lands unceremoniously on top of her. </p><p>Steve can’t help but feel somewhat fond at the sight of his friends on the couch. He carefully undoes the buckles on Carol’s heels, slips them off her feet, and places them near the front door before heading to the kitchen. He fills two glasses of water and reaches for the Advil when he catches sight of the numbers on his hand. Reminded, he sets it on the counter and grabs his phone.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Home now. Carol and Nat are asleep on my couch, all fine.</em> </b>
</p><p>And then, in a split-second decision that he’s sure he’ll come to regret, he adds: <b> <em>Hope everything is okay. X</em> </b></p><p>He slips his phone back into his pants and takes the water and medicine back out to the lounge. Neither of the women have moved, and the soft snores coming from the heap of their bodies suggest they won’t be anytime soon. He sets the supplies on the coffee table, throws a blanket over them, and heads to his bedroom.</p><p>When he goes to set his alarm, there’s a text waiting for him.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Sleep well. Happy Halloween :P</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>November</b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>How are the angels this morning?</em> </b>
</p><p>The thought of anyone referring to the women on his couch as <em> angels </em> makes Steve huff amusedly as he types out his reply: <b> <em>Natasha hasn’t tried to murder me, so pretty good.</em> </b></p><p>And then: <b> <em>I haven’t spoken to C yet though, so we’ll see.</em> </b></p><p>Bucky’s reply comes just as the timer sounds: <b> <em>Keep me posted :)</em> </b></p><p>He sends back a thumbs up emoji with one hand while pouring coffee with the other, and then tucks his phone away and carries the mugs through to the lounge where Carol, with half-lidded eyes, is wrapped in the blanket and absentmindedly petting Natasha’s fiery curls while the woman sprawls half-asleep across her lap, basking in the attention like a lap dog.</p><p>He places the mugs on the coffee table, knowing it’s better not to disturb them, and tucks himself into his favorite armchair. <b> <em>Coffee supplied, didn’t get my eyes scratched out. Success?</em> </b></p><p>Bucky’s reply is instantaneous: <b> <em>Success. At ease, soldier, you’ve done your bit</em> </b> <b>.</b></p><p>“What are you smiling at?” Natasha asks.</p><p>He looks up like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, “I’m not smiling.”</p><p>“You were smiling,” she says, voice still groggy, but more awake. She looks up at Carol, still petting her hair absentmindedly. She hasn’t even looked at the coffee. Steve’s not entirely sure she knows where she is. “Wasn’t he smiling?”</p><p>Carol hums an affirmative. So, she <em> is </em>alive.</p><p>“Shut up, both of you.”</p><p>-</p><p>Reuniting with Connie after her week-long vacation back home to South Beach feels like regrowing a missing limb. They spend their first lunch break back together lounging on a squishy couch in the break room underneath Main Street, where Connie coats his nails with clear protective polish while recounting her trip.</p><p>He really does try to stay engaged, but the moment a text from Steve lights up his phone screen her voice fades into the background.</p><p>
  <b> <em>You’re telling me I could have been napping under Main St this WHOLE TIME?!</em> </b>
</p><p>It’s been nearly a week since Halloween, and Steve giving him the time of day still feels like a privilege. Ever since that first message on Halloween night, Bucky hasn’t left it more than five minutes before he responds, lest Steve think that he isn’t interested or grateful for his time. He’d started today’s conversation, though, to inform Steve of the wonders of the Main Street breakroom.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Luxury, I’m telling you. Practically nobody here.</em> </b>
</p><p>Connie is watching him type out the response, one eyebrow arched up toward her hairline. “Who are you texting?”</p><p>“Nobody,” he says.</p><p>She eyes him, a stalemate, and lunges for his phone.</p><p>He lurches backwards, holding it as far out of her reach as he can, but she uses her petite frame to her advantage. She claws her way across his body to snatch it out of his hand and retreats back to her seat, victorious.</p><p>“You snake!” she exclaims the moment she sees the screen. He surges forward to get it back, but a knee to the chest keeps him back. “You’ve been talking to Steve this whole time?”</p><p>“Shut up!” he hisses, although the break room is near empty and Steve isn’t working today, so it’s not like he’ll overhear. “Give it back.”</p><p>She holds it above her head defiantly, despite knowing full well that he could get it if he really wanted to. “Not until you explain. Since when have you two been kiki-ing?”</p><p>He holds his palm out flat, “<em> Phone </em>.”</p><p>She hands it back with a huff. “You’re no fun.”</p><p>“We’re not <em> kiki </em> - <em> ing </em>,” he says eventually. Steve hasn’t replied yet, so he tucks it away. “We’re just… talking.”</p><p>“That’s a lot more than you were doing when I left. You have to tell me everything.”</p><p>He sighs, “There’s not much to…”</p><p>“Do <em> not </em>fuck with me.” Her expression is suddenly grave. “You’re on thin ice for not telling me about this immediately, so…”</p><p>She uncaps the nail polish she’d discarded in the tussle for his phone and grabs his hand, “Get talking.”</p><p>-</p><p>The truth of the matter is that, over the course of their week-long correspondence, Steve’s once burning hatred for Bucky has been considerably dampened. He doesn’t <em> like </em>him, and they’re definitely not friends, but his Bucky tolerance has improved. His general people tolerance still hasn’t, though, so he rolls his eyes when Peter asks him about his plans for Thanksgiving over lunch.</p><p>“No plans, then?” Peter asks, unperturbed.</p><p>“None that are any of your business,” Steve replies.</p><p>It’s Peter’s turn to roll his eyes then, and he takes a bite of his sandwich -- cut into neat corners and packed in a tupperware -- and launches into an explanation of his own plans for the holidays. Although, really, “holiday” is an operative term at Disney; Steve can’t remember the last holiday he spent outside of the park. </p><p>Peter goes on a spiel about spending Thanksgiving with the Starks, and how it’s his first holiday away from home, and Steve mentally clocks out of the conversation as the break room door swings open. Bucky passes by, flanked by Connie and their character host, and gives Steve a rushed little wave.</p><p>A cool hand lands on his forehead.</p><p>He bats it away and glares at Peter, “What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Peter goes back to his sandwich. “Just… No insults? No clever quips about how annoying he is?”</p><p>Steve’s mouth dries. He’s been caught. “I’m not a total dick, y’know.”</p><p>“You do a pretty good job of acting like one,” Peter replies. “But you’re not. You’ve actually been kind of… well, nice.”</p><p>“Never say that to me again,” Steve grumbles.</p><p>-</p><p>Steve is a mess.</p><p>It’s two-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, he’s been awake for all of forty-five minutes, and his sink is broken. Considering his lack of plumbing experience, his attempts at maintenance have been so far unsuccessful, so on top of being pissed off and exhausted, his pajama shirt is soaked, and he can feel the start of a migraine pressing behind his eyes.</p><p>His sink breaking isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, and it shouldn’t be enough to ruin his four day not-weekend, but here he is, dripping on his kitchen tile and slowly tracking his way through a mental hit list.</p><p>In his irritated state, it’s only natural that he lands on one name. </p><p>
  <b> <em>Strange question. Do you have any experience in plumbing?</em> </b>
</p><p>He pushes the faucet back again. The pipes make a labored gasping sound and he pulls it back closed instantly, terrified of being sprayed with ice cold water again. He decides silently that the text was a stupid idea; for all he knows, Bucky’s working right now.</p><p>
  <b> <em>I majored in engineering if that’s any help?</em> </b>
</p><p>Steve stares at the faucet, which should be running water but isn’t, chews on his bottom lip and considers his options. Are the implications of inviting Bucky to his apartment worth it? Does the small amount of hatred he still harbors for the man outweigh his current need for running water? How many gays does it take to fix a sink?</p><p>
  <b> <em>Close enough. How soon can you get here?</em> </b>
</p><p>Within thirty minutes after he sends the address, the buzzer in his hallway rings. Not long, then. He presses the key icon to unlock the downstairs door, and absolutely does <em> not </em>panic while waiting for Bucky to come upstairs. He does, however, kick a pile of laundry under the couch -- he’s only human.</p><p>Bucky’s holding a cardboard tray of coffee in one hand, and a shiny toolbox in the other. He’s wearing <em> overalls </em>, like a little kid playing at being a plumber. Steve feels a little winded.</p><p>“Figured we’d need this,” Bucky says, about the coffee. And then, about the toolbox, “And this.”</p><p>He’s right; the only tool that Steve owns is a rusty spanner that was left in the cabinet when he moved in. “Come in.”</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take long at all for the entire affair to devolve into them snapping at each other while Bucky prods at the sink with a plethora of different tools that Steve can’t identify. Bucky swears that <em> he </em>knows, but Steve starts to lose hope after hour number three.</p><p>“Do you have <em> any </em>idea what you’re doing?” he asks again, when the pipes make a disconcerting clunking sound. </p><p>“I promise,” Bucky says, voice echoing around the inside of the cabinet underneath the sink. “I think I’ve got it this time, honestly.”</p><p>The last time he’d said that had been shortly after removing and refitting the entire faucet, which had only succeeded in soaking them both, so Steve just crosses his arms and presses back as far against the opposite counter as he can while Bucky shimmies out from under the sink. </p><p>In a moment of terrible, slapstick misery, they are both sprayed with the entire contents of Steve’s garbage disposal. </p><p>Bucky wrenches the faucet shut, and drops to sit on the floor, “Oh, my god.”</p><p>Steve hands him the paper towels and drops down beside him. Somehow, he still looks good covered in blended up garbage. Go figure.</p><p>“Should have just called a plumber,” Steve says, mostly to himself, after a few moments of silence where Bucky wipes his face and tries not to gag.</p><p>Bucky lets out a high laugh and tips his head back against the cabinet, “Who needs Splash Mountain, huh?”</p><p>“I hope the water’s cleaner than this,” Steve tilts his head up to avoid the putrid smell wafting off his shirt.</p><p>“Have you ever <em> been </em> on Splash Mountain?” Bucky jokes.</p><p>Steve falters, gapes, and then admits, “Uh, no. Actually.”</p><p>Bucky’s jaw drops, and Steve’s still pissed that he doesn’t look ridiculous when he’s just been sprayed with <em> liquid garbage </em>. “You’ve never been on it?”</p><p>“I haven’t been on a lot of rides, actually,” he says. “Had a heart murmur as a kid, so I couldn’t. I grew out of it, I think, but I just… never got around to it.”</p><p>When he glances back at Bucky, his eyes are closed. “I’m getting you on that ride.”</p><p>“Fix my sink, and maybe we’ll talk.”</p><p>They don’t attempt to fix it again, and after some pushing from Steve, Bucky agrees to take a shower. Steve figures he can put off a shower until later, since Bucky had taken the worst of it, so he washes his face and arms in the laundry room and sticks their clothes in the washer for a short cycle while he waits. </p><p>He manages to clean the kitchen to the best of his ability and starts on a pot of coffee while sending a quick text to his landlord -- <b> <em>Sink broken.</em> </b> -- which feels like the final admittance of defeat. The coffee has just about finished when the shower stops running, and Bucky emerges from the bathroom in a plume of steam and Steve’s soap and pink-tinted skin just barely covered by a dark blue towel around his waist.</p><p>Steve’s mouth goes dry.</p><p>“I made coffee,” he says dumbly.</p><p>Bucky’s expression is somewhere between surprised and amused and, <em> Christ </em>, have his eyes always had specks of gold in them? “It’s nearly eight PM.”</p><p>Coffee is an all-hours drink, as far as Steve is concerned, but he can’t find the words to verbalise that right now. “I have decaf?”</p><p>“Alright then,” Bucky laughs, and heads into the lounge. Being out of his immediate vicinity gives Steve a moment to reboot his brain and steel himself against whatever the fuck just happened. A realisation? An awakening? A moment of Divine Intervention?</p><p>“I should probably head home soon!”</p><p>Bucky’s voice kicks him back into action, and he grabs the decaf coffee from the top shelf. “It’s way too late to get the bus! You should just stay here.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Bucky calls. “I can just get an Uber!”</p><p>Steve’s brain filters through every Uber horror story he’s ever heard as he takes the drinks out into the lounge. “You’re not getting an Uber, I’m happy to sleep on the couch.”</p><p>He doesn’t want to offer Bucky his bed, exactly, but Sarah Rogers raised a gentleman.</p><p>“I really don’t wanna intrude…” Bucky says.</p><p>Steve meets his eyes. <em> Shit </em>. “Please, for my sanity, just stay here.”</p><p>Bucky lets him press the warm mug into his hands and says, finally, “Fine. But I’m taking the couch.”</p><p>-</p><p>When Bucky wakes up, it takes him a moment to remember where he is. He’s spread out on his stomach under thin sheets, his face pressed unattractively into the arm of a leather couch -- seriously, <em> who </em> has a leather couch in <em> Florida </em>? -- his feet hanging off the other end. His right hand is mostly numb besides three points where his knuckles brush the carpet.</p><p>He rolls onto his back, kicking the sheet off his sweaty skin, and rubs the feeling back into his hand while checking the clock on the wall above him. 7:30. Figures; he can’t remember the last time he woke up past 8. </p><p>His phone is dead on the coffee table, so he takes the chance to have a proper look around Steve’s apartment. It’s not big by any stretch, with just enough space for the couch he’s sitting on and an armchair next to a window that could be French doors, covered by curtains that aren’t blocking the light at all. The door to what he assumes is Steve’s bedroom is directly opposite him, framed by a stack of blank canvases leaning against the wall between it and the TV.</p><p>It’s understated, humble, but undeniably Steve as he knows him.</p><p>He loses track of the time as he looks around the room, poking through a stack of Vanity Fair magazines on the coffee table and glancing out of the curtains to confirm that there are, in fact, French doors leading to a small balcony. He jumps as a series of thuds come from Steve’s bedroom and the door swings open.</p><p>Bucky forgets how to breathe.</p><p>Steve is in a faded Stevie Nicks t-shirt that’s a few sizes too big and half-tucked into grey sweatpants that are rolled at the ankles. Sleep has messed up his blonde hair, although it’s so dead straight that it hardly matters at all, unlike Bucky’s curls that he knows are unbelievably unruly. He suddenly feels embarrassed at his state - in boxers and odd socks with holes in the heels - while Steve looks like he’s just rolled out of one of the magazines he owns.</p><p>“Wanna take a picture?” Steve grumbles, and shuffles past him to the kitchen.</p><p>Not a morning person, then. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>December</b>
</p><p>“You’ll catch flies like that.”</p><p>Steve snaps his jaw shut and glares at Natasha, who responds with a grin over her hand of cards. The text had interrupted their lunchtime game of gin rummy.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Meet me in Frontierland @ 7. I’m taking you on Splash Mountain.</em> </b>
</p><p>It’s simple, really, but his head spins. It’s not exactly out of the blue, and it’s not like it’s a <em> date </em>. It’s a stupid offer, just recompense for a massive favor. But it’s also the first day of December, and even Steve can’t deny that there’s something inherently romantic about Magic Kingdom at Christmas.</p><p><em> Romantic </em>. Who has he become?</p><p>“Steve,” that’s Peter. “It’s your turn.”</p><p>Steve puts his phone down on the table, although his heart races as he swaps out a five of clubs for a five of hearts. No improvement on his hand, but he’s bad at the game at the best of times.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky is freaking out.</p><p>It had taken him over a week to pluck up the courage to text Steve in the first place, and a week’s worth of residual anxiety is coming down on him like a cinder block. He’d sent it just before the two o’clock parade in the hope that the inability to check his phone would stave off the anxiety, but it’s only made it worse.</p><p>He doesn’t realise how badly his left hand is shaking on Connie’s waist until she delicately places her own over it and squeezes his fingers twice. <em> You’re okay. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. </em> It’s reassuring, how she can read his mind like that.</p><p>As the floats come to a slow stop backstage, Bucky’s anxiety begins to ease as Steve’s response is just a utilidor away. He unhooks his harness -- hidden expertly under his costume -- and helps Conni unlatch the carabiner that gets lost in the many layers of her gown.</p><p>“It’s gonna be fine,” she says as he hops down off the float. </p><p>In a well-rehearsed move, she wraps an arm around his shoulders and he lifts her, depositing her safely on the tarmac. “He probably thinks I’m crazy.”</p><p>“You <em> are </em>crazy, for thinking that he doesn’t want to go on a date with you.” She hooks her hand through the crook of his arm as they head towards the backstage entrance. Around them, their fellow cast members relax against the floats, waiting for the rest of the parade to roll in. </p><p>Kitty Pryde, their resident Tinkerbell, comes bounding over to them. “Who’s going on a date?” </p><p>“Bucky,” Connie says. “He finally asked out that cute Fantasyland guy.”</p><p>Kitty gasps and hits him on the arm with her wand, “Finally! You’ve been dancing around each other for years.”</p><p>She’s only been working there three months, so there’s no way she could know what he’s been doing for <em> years </em>.</p><p>“How could you <em> possibly </em>know that?” he says, and then, “It’s not even a date! He’s never been on Splash Mountain, so I’m showing him what he’s been missing.”</p><p>“You’re definitely showing him something,” Connie wiggles her eyebrows, and Kitty collapses into laughter.</p><p>“I hate you so much.”</p><p> </p><p>Four hours later, Bucky paces the entrance to Frontierland.</p><p>He is not, under any circumstance, panicking. There’s no reason for anyone to be looking at him weirdly, because pacing is a totally normal thing to do. The shaking of his left hand is also totally normal; just a tremor that he’s had since he was fifteen that has in no way been worsened by the idea that Steve has stood him up. Not at all.</p><p>He checks the time again. It’s been less than a minute since he last checked. The clock is ticking steadily past their agreed meeting time, and he’s starting to cringe just thinking about crawling back to Connie and admitting that Steve didn’t even show up. </p><p>Just as he admits defeat, Steve comes jogging around the side of Splash Mountain, wrapped up in an expensive-looking navy coat and a grey scarf tucked up to his chin. When he gets closer, Bucky can see the flush tinting his cheeks. </p><p>He’s out of breath, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Bucky says. “Did you run?”</p><p>Steve takes a deep breath through his nose, trying and failing to hide it. “Not really…”</p><p>He knows how stubborn Steve is, so instead of challenging him he just waits patiently for his breathing to even out. Then, once Steve can breathe, he gestures in the vague direction of the ride entrance, “After you.”</p><p>Steve scowls, but steps in front of Bucky anyway. The December day winding down into a tepid evening means that the queue isn’t long at all, so they walk most of the length of the Fastpass queue at a steady pace. He notices, absently, that Steve stays strictly two steps ahead of him the entire way, like it’s a race.</p><p>When they hit the inside section of the queue building, Steve’s face contorts, and Bucky can’t believe he’s worked at Disney for as long as he has and <em> doesn’t </em>know the Splash Mountain smell.</p><p>“Bromine,” he says simply.</p><p>“It’s like Pirates of the Caribbean but worse,” Steve says.</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>Bucky had been so intent on meeting Steve at this time because he knows exactly who mans the queue on a Tuesday evening, and his plan has worked despite Steve being late. Clint Barton, in all his Splash Mountain-costume glory, waves cheerily at them when they get to the front of the queue. The log that he’s loading isn’t full yet, but he holds out his arm to stop them from getting on.</p><p>“Not yet,” he taps the side of his nose. “You’re my special guests tonight.”</p><p>Steve glances back at Bucky, who does a terrible job at hiding his smirk. Clint loads the people behind them into the back row, and then waits for the next one to roll in.</p><p>The soaked guests pass by them as they step out of the log, and Clint gestures to the now empty front seat. “Your carriage, monsieurs.”</p><p>“Front row?” Steve says as he shuffles across the bench. “We’re gonna get soaked.”</p><p>“How would you know? You’ve never been on this ride.” Bucky settles in beside him, perhaps a little close, but Steve seems comfortable.</p><p>“I know how it works, Buck,” he says, annoyed, but Bucky gets stuck on the nickname - <em> Buck </em>.</p><p>As the ride begins, Bucky finds himself paying more attention to Steve than any of the theming surrounding them. He’s ridden it so many times that he could probably recount it from memory, so Steve’s frankly <em> adorable </em>reaction to the entire thing is far more important. He knows that he’d kill him for saying it, but he looks like a wide-eyed kid as he looks around at all the scenery, and even excitedly points out when they round a corner that allows them to see out across Frontierland.</p><p>Steve is so focussed on looking around him that he doesn’t anticipate the drop at all. He lets out a surprised yelp and grabs at Bucky’s wrist, which startles Bucky far more than the shock of cold water that splashes into his face a second later.</p><p>The sight of Steve, head tilted back slightly and perfect white teeth all on display as he laughs along with the kitschy jamboree music, has Bucky more thoroughly winded than any theme park ride. He even laughs his way through the finale, which Bucky hadn’t thought was possible from the guy who has texted him on six different occasions about <em> It’s a Small World </em>being stuck in his head. </p><p>“So you liked it, then?” Bucky dares to ask as they turn the corner back into the loading bay.</p><p>“It was alright,” Steve says, but his eyes are <em> sparkling </em>and Bucky thinks he might actually die. “Thank you.”</p><p>Back on Frontierland’s dusty streets, Steve shakes off his head like a dog and lets his wet fringe flop over onto his forehead, and it should really be a crime that it manages to fall so perfectly. Bucky grabs his phone to document it, because even in early December the heat will dry up his hair pretty quick, and he’d like to have floppy-haired Steve in his camera roll forever.</p><p>“Delete that,” Steve frowns.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Bucky puts his phone away, and doesn’t delete it.</p><p> </p><p>If Bucky walks around for the next few days like somebody’s told him the sun shines out of his ass, it’s really nobody’s business but his own. He doesn’t even notice the subtle changes at first, how he stands a little straighter or smiles a little bigger, or how his heart jumps every time his phone chimes, until Sam side-eyes him in the locker room.</p><p>“You’ve got some pep in your step,” he says. “What’s got into you recently?”</p><p>Bucky can’t tame the smile that threatens his face, so he ducks his head into his locker under the guise of looking through his bag. His friendship with Steve still feels too delicate for the prying hands of his well-meaning friends. “Nothing. Jus’ a good day.”</p><p>Sam peers around the door of his locker, “I don’t believe you.”</p><p>Bucky pulls a pair of white socks out of his bag. “Ain’t a guy just allowed to be happy these days?”</p><p>“Hm,” Sam’s eyes narrow. “You sound like Brooklyn when you lie.”</p><p>Bucky scowls, “No, I don’t.”</p><p>“You do,” he says. “And you didn’t deny lying.”</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p> </p><p>A week into December, when Christmas is finally in full swing, Bucky receives a text that changes his world. </p><p>
  <b> <em>I just don’t see what’s so magic about it.</em> </b>
</p><p>It’s just past one in the morning, and him and Steve have been bickering about the origins of Disney magic for nearly forty-five minutes. He’s heard Steve out so far, but this is the final straw.</p><p>Positively irate that Steve could even fathom such a thing, he calls him. It takes two rings, during which he stands up from his couch and paces the entire length of his lounge in four crazed strides, for Steve to pick up.</p><p>“Uh… hi?”</p><p>He can’t even think about how deep Steve’s voice is this time of night, because he’s about to go absolutely <em> insane </em>. “You don’t believe in Disney magic?”</p><p>“Wow, uh, I didn’t realise this would prompt a phone call,” Steve replies.</p><p>“Of course it does!” he raises his voice a little before he remembers that both of his sisters are asleep, and quickly drops back into a whisper-yell. “You’ve worked there for <em> years </em>, and you don’t think it’s magical?”</p><p>“Yeah, because I’ve worked there for years,” Steve says flatly. “How old are you, again?”</p><p>Bucky knows that he’s the literal poster boy of <em> Disney adults </em>, but he doesn’t understand how somebody could spend every day in the happiest place on earth and still not know why it’s so happy. Playing into his childish side helps him get through the day most of the time.</p><p>That prompts him to make a promise, “You, my friend, are going to learn the magic of Disney. I promise.”</p><p>“How am I going to do that?” Steve says, with a strained sound and a yawn, and Bucky really doesn’t need to think about him stretching out across his bed right now, because he needs to come up with a <em> plan </em>.</p><p>“I don’t know yet,” he says, which is a great way to start. “But I <em> will </em>show you. Mark my words.”</p><p>“Words marked,” Steve says through another yawn. “Loud and clear. Can I go to sleep now?”</p><p>“Yes,” Bucky says. “Night, Steve.”</p><p>“Night, Buck.”</p><p><em> Buck </em>.</p><p>It takes some planning and a bit of good-natured bribery of Leo, the standby Prince Charming, but before Bucky knows it he’s meeting Steve at the Ticket &amp; Transportation Center. It’s still not cold, because it’s Florida, but Steve is all wrapped up in his fancy coat and scarf anyway, and his gloved fingers tug almost obsessively at the back of a grey wool hat. It looks hand-knitted, and Bucky wonders who made it for him.</p><p>Steve just about side-steps a rogue stroller as they head towards the Monorail. Neither of them were working today, so they have to take the <em> peasant way in </em>, as Steve had so affectionately called it this morning, but Bucky doesn’t mind: he misses the full Disney experience.</p><p>The Monorail is full to the point of overflow, so Steve immediately lets a heavily pregnant woman take his seat. It’s far more courteous than Bucky would have expected from him, and it means that he ends up standing right between Bucky’s knees, one hand clutching the metal pole beside him as he sways gently with the motion of the car.</p><p>“What’s on the agenda?” he asks as Bucky admires the curve of his jaw from this entirely new angle.</p><p>“That would ruin the surprise,” Bucky replies. “But you’re gonna love it.”</p><p>Steve smiles, and Bucky taps the heel of his boot against Steve’s ankle.</p><p>Despite it being Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas Party, a ticketed after-hours event that marks the build up to Christmas, the park isn’t as busy as Bucky had expected. He’s used to it being at capacity on party nights, and he recalls the amount of times he’s looked out into the crowd watching the parade and wondered if anyone could really be enjoying themselves packed in together that tight.</p><p>Thank the Lord for Wednesdays, the blandest and most off-peak of them all, for letting them get down Main Street unscathed.</p><p>“Would you kill me if I said I’d never been on Splash Mountain?” Steve asks as they approach the Tomorrowland entrance, which has been projected with a whole host of Christmas items.</p><p>“You’re lucky that’s where I’m taking you, then.” Feeling emboldened by the night, he gives Steve a short wink and just about conceals his following cringe. “I figured if you hadn’t been on Splash Mountain, you probably hadn’t been on this either.”</p><p>Steve hums thoughtfully, but the corner of his mouth tugs at a frown. It’s probably because of the wink. <em> Why did you go for the wink? </em></p><p>There’s no Fastpass available at the after-hours events, so Bucky is slightly worried that waiting in the queue will be asking too much of Steve, but he doesn’t seem to mind as they join the back of the line.</p><p>“This is one of my favorites,” Bucky eventually says. “Although, when I came back here after my growth spurt I was scared that if I sat up too high the track would take my head off.”</p><p>“Uh,” Steve says.</p><p>Bucky realises what he’s just said, “Oh my god.”</p><p>
  <em> Foot. In. Mouth. Again. </em>
</p><p>Thoroughly embarrassed by both his attempts at humor, he decides to abstain from even talking for the remainder of their wait. He resorts to watching Steve out of the corner of his eye, since he won’t be able to watch him on the ride this time. Steve studies all of the queue scenery like it’s art in the Louvre, enamored by the simplest effects.</p><p>It doesn’t take them long to reach the end of the queue, and the child in Bucky fights against the gentleman in him for a moment before he lets Steve take the front seat. After all, it’s probably better to sit behind him so that he can watch how he runs a hand through his hair, flattened by his hat, or how his entire body seems to thrum with the nervous energy of waiting for something to begin.</p><p>They hurl into ever-lasting space, lights and wind soaring past them. On the first sharp inversion, he hears Steve holler in glee as the breath is sucked from his chest, and warmth spreads through Bucky’s stomach and sits there for the rest of the night.</p><p>When they unfold themselves from the seats and step back onto solid ground, Steve is positively giddy, cheeks flushed crimson and chest rising and falling with the rapid rate of his breath. He grabs onto Bucky to steady himself as they head to the exit, and Bucky’s own knees feel weak.</p><p>“You liked it?” Bucky guesses.</p><p>Steve’s eyes are still glazed over when he breathes, “Holy <em> shit </em>.”</p><p>For all that Disney has to offer at the Christmas party, Bucky’s favorite part by far are the lights that cover every inch of Main Street, twinkling against the dark sky. He says as much to Steve as they leave Cosmic Ray’s Diner with a Christmas-themed drink each.</p><p>“I would’ve taken you for a fireworks guy, myself.” Steve takes a sip of his frozen eggnog and makes a positively <em> pornographic </em>noise at the back of his throat.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Bucky says once he’s sure his voice won’t give out. “We’re doing that, too. But this first.”</p><p>They pass through the hub, which is by far the busiest area. The castle is dripping in bright white lights, standing out as a beacon of white against the dark canvas of the night sky. The evening hue fully dropped into full twilight while they were on Space Mountain, so they glow even brighter than they had before. It’s exactly how Bucky had planned.</p><p>When they reach the Plaza Restaurant, he places a hand on Steve’s elbow to stop him, and points up at the top of the building. Steve squints up, impeded by the lights, and says, “What am I looking at?”</p><p>“Walt’s window,” Bucky leans in close so Steve can hear him over the crowd. “Every window has a dedication to someone who was important to him or the park, but all of <em> his </em>face the castle. You won’t find one with Walt on it that doesn’t. Most people wouldn’t bother looking up at them with everything else there is to see, so it’s likely you’ll be the only person looking at it when you do. It’s a little private moment amongst the chaos, like you’re being let in on a little secret.”</p><p>Steve’s eyes flick to him, and their faces are a lot closer than Bucky had realised. He searches Bucky’s face. He speaks at a gentle, fascinated lilt that’s missing all the condescension that he’s so used to. “You really love it here, don’t you?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he admits. “I’ve wanted to work here since I could remember. I could spend forever pointing out all the little details; I’ve got them all memorised.”</p><p>Steve nods, “You’d better get started, then.”</p><p>They wander all the way down Main Street to the train station at a steady pace, Bucky pointing out as many window dedications and hidden Mickeys as he can spot, and by the time they’ve done a full loop and arrived back at the hub, his hot chocolate is stone cold and Steve’s eggnog has melted. At some point, by some miracle, Steve’s hand had crept into the crook of Bucky’s arm and stayed there. It burns a hole in his skin as they dump their cups in a trashcan and search for a spot to watch the fireworks.</p><p>“You’re a good tour guide,” Steve says once they’re settled, leaning up to Bucky’s ear. “You’re wasted as the prince.”</p><p>Bucky laughs, “But then what would I do with my regal good looks?”</p><p>He expects Steve to berate him for that, but he just lets out a short exhale and shakes his head with a grin.</p><p>The fireworks show kicks off with a musical flourish and an explosion of light. The crowd cheer, and Bucky remembers why these fireworks are such a staple of the Disney experience. The entire park thrums with an energy that he can’t explain, and there’s a sense of camaraderie amongst the crowd that can only come with experiencing such a magical thing together. He feels like a kid again, holding onto his mom’s hand as they marvelled at the colors illuminating the night sky.</p><p>He finds himself nearly floating away on the thought, until there’s a particularly impressive series of fireworks and Steve’s grip tightens on his arm, pulling him back into the moment. It’s not his mom holding him, or his dad, or either of his sisters, but Steve. His hand is a steady weight on his arm, a gentle and unintentional reminder: <em> you won’t get lost. I’m right here. </em></p><p>The fireworks illuminate Steve’s face, and his lips are parted slightly in wonder, and his hand stays on Bucky’s arm, and Bucky thinks, like sinking into a dream: <em> no, I won’t get lost. </em></p><p> </p><p>Christmas Day is the busiest day of the year at Magic Kingdom, which means it is, objectively, the worst.</p><p>Tension is already dripping from the walls and the faces of other cast members as Steve walks through the utilidor for his morning shift. Making a pleasant experience for an astronomical number of guests is a feat like no other, and even a well-oiled machine like Disney can’t pull it off without some stress behind the scenes. </p><p>He works through the morning shift as if it’s a normal day; he scans Fastpasses, wishes each guest a merry Christmas, and sends Natasha an appropriate amount of glares when she makes comments about the elf hat he’s been forced to wear.</p><p>On his first break, a five-minute stint between Pan’s Flight and Small World, he gets a text from Bucky that just reads <b> <em>Help.</em> </b> , and that pretty much sums it up. He replies with a series of emojis that reflect his general mood, ( <b> <em>Santa. Fire. Skull.</em> </b>) and heads to his second ride of the day.</p><p>Peter is working at Small World too, and Steve senses some despondence behind his polite smile. He remembers how difficult it was working his first holiday, and Peter really is far too young to be this far away from home. At lunch, he catches him eating alone in The Mouse, and deliberates for a second before heading over to him. He drops into the seat opposite, and Peter looks up from his phone, his jaw working slower around the bite of his sandwich. “Hey, Steve.”</p><p>“Hi.”</p><p>Steve drinks his coffee slowly while Peter takes careful bites of his sandwich and watches him like he’s ticking, until Steve decides, <em> well, here goes nothing. </em></p><p>“You’re from Queens, right?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Peter says, mouth full. He grimaces, swallows, and then continues. “Have you… uh… ever been?”</p><p>“I grew up in Brooklyn.”</p><p>Peter looks at him like he’s just declared he’s mayor of New York. “No way!”</p><p>“Born and bred,” Steve nods, and some of the tension lifts. “Just don’t have the accent; I’ve lived in Florida too long.”</p><p>“Why did you move?”</p><p>“My dad was in the army,” Steve begins, realising quickly that he’s gotten himself in far too deep. “Mom didn’t want to move me again after he died, so we just stayed here.”</p><p>Peter’s face falls, but Steve has worked through most of his grief already; the sting of losing his dad had been numbed with the death of his mom. It’s as if his grief was displaced, suddenly concentrated into one area that makes the past dull in comparison. </p><p>“I lost my dad, too,” Peter’s voice is low suddenly, and he sounds as young as he looks. “And my mom. I mean, I was a baby, so I don’t really remember them but… I get it. My aunt would have done anything to make it easier on me.”</p><p>And there it is: the shift.</p><p>Steve inexplicably sees Peter in a different light. The irritating, fumbling kid that’s been pestering him for months disappears, and in his place sits somebody with shared experience. A guy who’s lost both his parents, who’s been through the worst thing a kid could go through. But, unlike Steve, he isn’t jaded. He’s not bitter or senile, and he allows himself to feel happiness and excitement and magic.</p><p>Steve smiles, to himself, and says, “Tell me about your aunt.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>January</b>
</p><p>As December collapses into January, Steve is able to breathe again. The commencement of the holiday season sees the park’s attendance rates slip into the sleepy post-holiday lull which is the best part of any cast member’s year.</p><p>Shortly before the final parade of the final Christmas Party, Steve is at his post at the base of the royal float - the largest of the parade - to spot the Parade Operations crew as they lift the princesses onto their perches. As the cherry picker comes back down, having lifted Ariel and Eric onto their stand, Bucky presses close against Steve’s side and whispers, “EPCOT tomorrow.”</p><p>Steve turns his head a second too late, and Bucky is already at the other end of the float helping Connie step up onto the cherry picker. All he can do is gape, the comfortable warmth of Bucky’s body echoing in his mind.</p><p>A hand waves in front of his face.</p><p>“Earth to Steve,” says Luke, a health and safety coordinator. “You’re clear.”</p><p>It takes a moment for Steve to regain function, and as soon as his brain reboots he says, “Oh.” and takes a step back to allow the machine to move on. From the end of the float, fifteen feet in the air, Bucky grins at him.</p><p> </p><p>“I used to think Spaceship Earth was Space Mountain,” Bucky says as they enter EPCOT the next day. “You can imagine how disappointed I was when I finally rode it.”</p><p>The slow dark ride might have disappointed Bucky as a kid, but he still smiles fondly remembering his dad dragging him and his sisters on it every time they visited the park. Steve’s eyebrows furrow a little. “I enjoyed it; it was interesting.”</p><p>“Of course you did.” Bucky imagines little Steve, with his thick glasses and scruffy blonde hair, fascinated by the history of innovations. “Of course you did.”</p><p>Steve elbows him in the side, “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Ow!” Bucky protests. “I just mean, y’know, you’d never been on <em> Splash Mountain </em>, so of course Spaceship Earth was your favorite.”</p><p>“You mean I’m boring,” Steve says. He sounds serious, but he’s smirking.</p><p>“You know I don’t think that.”</p><p>They enter World Showcase in comfortable silence, taking in the pleasant afternoon. Once upon a time, Bucky had taken Steve’s silence as hostility, but he’s quickly learned that Steve expresses himself in much subtler ways than words. Minute expression changes; fingers dancing across his shirt hem to the ever-present park music; his shoulder bumping against Bucky’s as he steps out of people’s way.</p><p>It’s only a short walk to the UK pavilion, and Steve seems surprised that Bucky has chosen this out of all of them, but it’s always secretly been Bucky’s favorite. He leads Steve straight to the back of the pavilion, past the Mary Poppins meet and greet and the food stalls towards the Yorkshire County Fish Shop. He’d meant for them to get food first, but Steve seems to fixate on the thatched-roof facade of the Twinings Tea Shop as they pass by.</p><p>“Tea?” he asks.</p><p>“Could we go in?” Steve says instead of answering.</p><p>Bucky nods indifferently. There are no reservations for their food, and his surprise isn’t planned until a little later, so they have time to spare.</p><p>They duck through the door, and it’s just as kitschy on the inside as it is out. It’s a fairly small space, decorated to look like the cosy inside of a British home, lined with shelves holding more tea variations than Bucky knew existed.</p><p>The brunette behind the counter smiles brilliantly, and Bucky realises why Steve had wanted to come in.</p><p>“Well, if it isn’t Steve Rogers!” she says in a lilting English accent.</p><p>“Hi, Peggy,” Steve replies. Instead of awkwardly lingering behind him, Bucky turns to the shelves and inspects the flavors on offer.</p><p>“It’s taken you long enough to visit me,” Bucky hears her say. “Or is the trip over here not worth it?”</p><p>“Of course it’s worth it,” Steve says with a short laugh. “I never have time; I work a lot.”</p><p>Bucky clocks out of the conversation, staring at the boxes in front of him. He’d had no idea there were so many kinds of chai -- <em> what even is chai? </em></p><p>“I recommend the peppermint,” the lilting accent says, suddenly directly next to his ear. He jumps back a little, senses overwhelmed by the floral scent of Peggy’s perfume as she runs one manicured fingernail over the boxes. She plucks two off the shelf. “But the pumpkin is Steve’s favorite.”</p><p>She presses the boxes into his hands with an expression so serious she might as well be handing him the keys to the White House. He nods, stunned, “Right.”</p><p>“Of course…” She turns to a different shelf, picks out another box and heads back to the counter. “...you can never go wrong with classic English Breakfast.”</p><p>They end up buying all three boxes, and Peggy winks quickly at Steve as they leave.</p><p>Bag swinging in Steve’s hand, they cross the walkway to the fish shop, where they each order a slice of cake and a drink before sitting at a table overlooking the water. A dark orange parasol keeps the oppressive sun off their skin while they settle in.</p><p>“So, how do you know Peggy?” Bucky asks eventually.</p><p>Steve uses a plastic fork to cut a slither of cake and place it in his mouth. He chews for a moment, deliberating, and then cuts off a bigger piece. “We used to work together, when she worked at MK.”</p><p>He puts the next piece in his mouth, and makes the same low groaning sound from Christmas. Bucky takes a sip of his beer. “She worked attractions with you, then?”</p><p>Steve shakes his head, “She was friends with Wendy for a while. Then she got Mary, so she moved here, and now…”</p><p>“Now she works in a tea shop?” Bucky finishes unhelpfully. Steve nods. “But why?”</p><p>Steve shrugs, “Not everyone enjoys being a character.”</p><p> </p><p>Once they’ve finished eating, they head back through the UK pavilion and around the showcase plaza. Steve seems to realise his plan as soon as they pass Mexico, crossing into Norway. “Are you taking me on Frozen?”</p><p>He’s not particularly excited, and Bucky can hardly blame him. The Frozen ride isn’t thrilling like Space Mountain, and the story hardly matches up with Haunted Mansion -- which Steve had once heavily suggested was his favorite -- but the visuals are some of the most beautiful that Bucky has ever seen. </p><p>Steve’s eyes widen as they round the corner of the pavilion; the standby line almost reaches where they’re standing. </p><p>“This has gotta be a two hour wait, at least,” he says.</p><p>Bucky touches the base of his spine gently, guiding him toward the Fastpass entrance. “Then it’s a good job we’re not waiting, isn’t it?”</p><p>The Fastpass queue is even longer than standby, but they bypass the line completely to meet the thick-bearded cast member waiting for them at the entrance. </p><p>“You made it!” Thor tugs Bucky into a full-body hug, his tree-trunk arms constricting Bucky’s ribs. “I was starting to think you’d never show up!”</p><p>“Sorry, we ate in the UK,” Bucky explains once the man drops him.</p><p>“Thor…” Steve reads off his nametag, and it’s unclear whether he realises that he says it out loud. “Cool name.”</p><p>Thor just laughs good-naturedly, and proclaims, “Follow me, friends.”</p><p>As they follow him through the queue, Bucky catches Steve mouth “<em> Thor? </em>” to himself again.</p><p>The queue for the ride is absolutely stunning, a zig-zagging line surrounded by facades that somehow perfectly give the impression of being on the streets of a Norwegian village at night. Bucky begrudges the fact they can’t stand around and take it all in, but Steve seems impressed without having to wait for two hours.</p><p>Thor leads them right to the end of the queue, declaring them “Very Important Guests” to the cast member overseeing load-on. She shakes her head fondly at him and gestures for Steve and Bucky to step onto the boat. The gates shut behind them, and Steve grins when he realises they have the whole boat to themselves.</p><p>“How have you done this <em> again </em>?” Steve asks as Bucky settles in next to him.</p><p>“I did some meet and greets and Kristoff over here last Christmas,” Bucky says. “Thor owed me a favor.”</p><p>Thor waves at them from the loading bay as they set off, rounding the dark corner into snowy Arendelle.</p><p> </p><p>At first, Steve isn’t sure how good a Frozen ride can possibly be.</p><p>He’s a firm believer that the classic Disney movies are better, so he’s only seen the film a handful of times. Bucky seems optimistic, though, and maybe even a little excited as they step into the boat.</p><p>“You’re gonna love it,” Bucky assures him as they round the corner into the first ride scene. </p><p>Steve doesn’t get the chance to respond, suddenly distracted by the cave they’ve entered, dripping with blue and white lights that twinkle above their heads like stalactites. He finds himself almost missing the animatronic Olaf singing to them about Elsa’s ice palace in favor of admiring the stunning scenery that surrounds them. He’s always admired the Imagineers’ work, while he’d never admit it to Tony.</p><p>As they’re propelled backwards by Elsa’s powers, Steve catches a glimpse of Bucky out of the corner of his eye. Instead of watching the curling ice patterns projected all around them, Bucky is watching <em> him </em>. Never one to back down first, Steve meets his eyes as their boat slows down and turns to move toward the final drop. Bucky smiles, just a little, and folds his palm over Steve’s on the bench as they’re propelled forward.</p><p>He thinks about the ride all the way to the Skyway and then on the drive home. The colors and the lights, the lanterns strung between fake buildings dangling over their heads in the queue, the shape of Bucky’s lips when he’d smiled and curled their hands together.</p><p>When he gets home, he draws all of it in a sketchbook that he hasn’t touched in years, committing it to page and -- little does he know -- to heart.</p><p> </p><p>Two days later, when they meet in Animal Kingdom, Bucky finds Steve sketching the base of the tree of life. Intricate wood animals swirl and intersect each other across the page. He doesn’t mean for Bucky to see it, but he sneaks up on him and catches a glimpse anyway, so he caves and turns the sketchbook around as soon as Bucky asks.</p><p>“That’s incredible,” Bucky says, slack-jawed. “You’re incredible.”</p><p>Steve fights against the heat in his cheeks, and tucks his sketchbook away. “Got a lot of practise, I guess. I used to want to be an animator.”</p><p>“Used to?” Bucky parrots. “You could do it! Seriously, that is… just… wow.”</p><p>They stare at each other for a long moment, where Steve hears his pulse echoing in his ears, until he says. “You said Expedition Everest?”</p><p>“Expedition Everest!” Bucky says, a revelation. “Trust me, you’re gonna love this one. So, the Imagineers went on this trip to Nepal…”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>February</b>
</p><p>Steve can’t pinpoint the exact moment running into Bucky at work becomes a good thing. It might be the first time Bucky meets him with a coffee during an early shift, or the first time he and Sam sit with them at lunch. Or it might have been earlier, when he woke up to Bucky bleary-eyed and fluffy haired on his couch, or when they’d held hands in the dark and didn’t mention it afterwards. Maybe it was when he’d talked about his pipe dream and Bucky had nodded and said <em> you’re incredible </em>.</p><p>Today shouldn’t be any different to the average day, but he only gets a step into the locker room before he realises something’s wrong. Bucky is all but inside his locker, head bowed, phone held against his ear like a drowning man grips land. </p><p>“I can’t…” he’s saying, voice so soft he could be reciting a psalm.</p><p>His free hand snakes around his middle and squeezes, and Steve suddenly feels the visceral sense that he’s intruding on something very personal. “I can’t clock out early, Beck. You know that. You know how hard I worked to get this job.”</p><p>He slams the door of his locker, and Steve starts towards the door at the sudden sound. </p><p>“There’s nobody out to fucking get you, Beck!” Bucky yells, and then cringes instantly, tone sinking back into the gentle lull of before. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to yell, I just… Is Clara there? Yeah, love, it’s just Clara…”</p><p>His voice gets so quiet that Steve can’t make out what he’s saying, but eventually Bucky’s shoulders relax, and he sighs something like relief.</p><p>“Good,” Bucky says. “I’ll see you later… Yeah, I promise. Love you, too.”</p><p>He hangs up, and drops his head against the locker with a dull metallic <em> thunk </em> . He stays there for a moment, breathing shakily against the metal, and Steve remembers that he doesn’t <em> know </em>he’s there. As Bucky raises his head, Steve ducks behind a row of lockers.</p><p>He pushes himself as far back against the lockers as he can, a spinlock pressing against his tailbone uncomfortably. The only sound is Bucky’s breath, evening out as he calms himself down, and he eventually hears Bucky’s locker open. He takes the chance to shift over slightly so that the lock isn’t quite so uncomfortable against his back…</p><p>The squeak of his foot against the concrete is loud enough to wake the dead.</p><p>The unmistakable feeling of a rubber sole against concrete vibrates through his body like an electric shock. It echoes right off the walls and bounces back to smack him across the face and tell him just how goddamn stupid he is.</p><p>There are a few moments of painful, cavernous silence before Bucky calls, “Hello?”</p><p>Steve stays still. He doesn’t even dare to breathe as Bucky calls out again, heart doing double time as measured footsteps approach his hiding spot.</p><p>Bucky’s phone rings. Steve hears him swear under his breath, and his footsteps retreating as he answers it, (“Hi Clara…”), and Steve races to the far end of the long room before he allows himself to breathe again.</p><p>Two minutes later, he gets a text.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Up for a trip to Hollywood Studios after work? I need some Slinky Dog Dash in my life.</em> </b>
</p><p>Steve grinds his teeth and responds, <b> <em>Sure! Meet you at the Skyway.</em> </b></p><p>-</p><p>Steve is acting weird, although that doesn’t really occur to Bucky until he’s halfway home. He was quieter than usual, mostly just standing and staring as Bucky spoke, like he was trying to figure something out. His day was probably just stressful, which has been known to happen, but Bucky can’t help but fear the worst; that Steve hates him again, and there’s nothing he’ll be able to do about it this time.</p><p>He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because his apartment is in a low-level state of chaos.</p><p>“Jamie, thank god you’re home,” Clara, his youngest sister, presses his baby niece into his arms. It takes him a moment to process the sudden armful of eight-month-old, and he shifts her on his hip until she’s comfortable. Clara disappears into her bedroom, calling over her shoulder, “She needs to be fed!”</p><p>“Right!” he calls back, and heads to the kitchen. Espe, the baby, gurgles happily as he bounces her on his hip and blows a raspberry on her soft forehead before grabbing the formula. Clara has already boiled water and left it to cool, so he just has to make the formula up. It’s a skill that he’s mastered doing one-handed.</p><p>Clara comes into the kitchen eventually, and he leans towards her while shaking the formula with his other hand so that she can lift Espe out of her arms. The baby protests a little, but Clara shushes her with kisses to her pudgy cheeks.</p><p>“How was your day?” she asks, rocking side-to-side.</p><p>“Alright.” Bucky thinks about how weird Steve was acting, and considers mentioning it before he thinks better of it. He hasn’t told her about Steve yet, and it seems like her day’s been long enough without his problems. “What about you? How’s Beck?”</p><p>Her expression falters. “She thought I was spying on her, for the government. She didn’t believe me when I told her I wasn’t; I don’t think she even recognised me.”</p><p>She tries to force a smile onto her face, but her voice is threatening to break. Their sister’s condition takes a toll on her, he knows because it takes a toll on him too, but she’s always been far more empathetic than he is. She takes after their mom; she feels everything so much harsher than he does.</p><p>“Did you call the psychiatrist?” </p><p>She nods, lips pursed. “They said to make sure she’s taking her meds, and that she’s comfortable and safe. <em> Relapse is a part of recovery </em>.”</p><p>She recites the phrase they get told every other week, and he groans in frustration. He doesn’t begrudge a second of helping her, and he knows that Clara doesn’t either, but it hurts them both to see their sister hurting so much, but it seems like her psychiatrist isn’t even taking her seriously.</p><p>Instead of expressing his anger in a way that would only cause more upset, he swallows it like a stone and presses the teat of Espe’s bottle against the inside of his wrist. It’s just the right temperature, so he caps it again and holds out his arms.</p><p>“Give her here.” Clara hands her over without question, and Espe immediately sticks her fingers in his curls. “<em> You </em>need to take a break.”</p><p>Usually, Clara would protest, but she looks so exhausted that she just nods, resigned, and pads toward her bedroom. He feels a pang of guilt at leaving her to go out with Steve, but that only reminds him of Steve’s behavior, so he pushes the thought away and heads down the hall towards the second bedroom.</p><p>He knocks on the door twice before pushing it open. The curtains are drawn, soaking the entire room in muted darkness, and the lump under the bed covers is moving up and down with steady breaths. It would be easy to assume that Rebecca was asleep, if she wasn’t rocking the baby’s empty crib with one hand. </p><p>“Beck,” he says, gently, careful with his tone. She’s sick, but she’s not a child; he knows better than to talk down to her. “You awake?”</p><p>The lump shifts, and Rebecca’s brunette head emerges from under the covers, pearing at him with puffy, bleary eyes. She smiles, and pushes herself to sit up against the headboard, one hand lingering on the crib.</p><p>“You’re home,” she says, voice raspy. “How was your day?”</p><p>He sits carefully on the bed and tucks one leg up under himself. “It was good. I got the girl, as usual.”</p><p>She smiles again, and he’s surprised to see her so calm. After an intense episode, she’s usually more lethargic. She rubs the back of her forefinger over Espe’s rosy cheek, “Did you hear that, <em> mi cielo </em>? Your uncle is a prince.”</p><p>The baby babbles happily and leans into her mom’s hand, which prompts Rebecca to hold both of her hands out. “Can I hold her?”</p><p>“Of course you can,” Bucky hands her over carefully, and once she’s comfortably situated in Rebecca’s lap, he hands the formula over too.</p><p>Rebecca is a natural mother; she takes to feeding Espe like second nature, her long dark hair tumbling around the baby like a protective layer of forest. As the baby feeds, she rocks her ever so gently, singing softly.</p><p>Bucky stands carefully to not interrupt them, grabs pajama pants from the dresser and slips out of the room to change.</p><p>He’s making dinner -- a simple curry made from whatever was leftover from last week’s groceries -- and swatting Clara’s hands away from the pan when Rebecca emerges, hair scraped back into a ponytail and face more serene than it’s been in days.</p><p>She leans against the doorframe. “What are you cooking?”</p><p>Clara looks between them, hand frozen halfway to dip a finger in the sauce.</p><p>“Curry, love,” Bucky says, swatting at Clara’s hand again. “Are you hungry?”</p><p>“Very,” Rebecca sighs, and rests her head against the frame. “I… thank you, both. For everything.”</p><p>“You don’t need to thank us,” Bucky pats her gently on the cheek. “It’s our job.”</p><p>Rebecca smiles again before retreating to the lounge, and they hear the TV turn on. Clara ducks into his eyeline to give him a quizzical look, which he replies to with a short shrug. </p><p>Then, she dips her finger in the curry and runs to join Rebecca, laughing victoriously the whole way. Fucking sisters.</p><p>That night, as he sets up the couch to sleep, he smiles picturing Rebecca and Espe. His phone sits charging on the arm of the couch, and he stares at it for a long moment before texting Steve: <b> <em>Please don’t hate me again.</em> </b> <b> <em> Sleep well x</em> </b></p><p>-</p><p>Knowing that there’s a crack in Bucky’s perfect facade shakes Steve to his core. He’s had a lot of revelations about the man over the past few months, but this is by far the most monumental. It was far easier to denounce Bucky when he was purely two-dimensional. The sudden shift in his worldview forces him to avoid Bucky for two straight days, leaving all of his messages unopened and hiding out in increasingly ridiculous places to not cross his path.</p><p>He’s a coward, okay? So what?</p><p>On the third day of his self-imposed Bucky Ban, he gets a text that says: <b> <em>Are you ok? Got FP for Haunted Mansion tomorrow if you’re up for it. Might cheer you up :) </em> </b> and his restraint crumbles. He’s always had a soft spot for that ride, and Bucky asking if <em> he’s </em> okay is kind of heartwarming and more than he deserves, so he replies, <b> <em>All good. Looking forward to it x </em> </b>and promptly turns his phone off.</p><p>The guilt returns in full force when Steve sees Bucky again, leaning against the wrought iron gates of the Haunted Mansion. Mild evenings have shifted to warm ones with little fanfare, so he’s only in a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. Somehow, Steve’s brain supplies unhelpfully, he still looks like a prince.</p><p>Bucky’s smile is white and beautiful when he spots Steve, greeting him with a little wave and a nod towards the entrance. “Let’s go get spooky.”</p><p>The queue moves quickly, and Bucky spends the entire wait listing off seemingly everything there is to know about the ride, from it’s conception to the effects it uses, and Steve half-listens while watching the way his mouth moves. Now that he looks for it, he sees an echo of something in his face: an exhaustion behind his eyes that’s only present in the moments when he thinks Steve isn’t looking.</p><p>They’re let into the pre-show room, where Steve marvels at the larger-than-life paintings on each wall. He hasn’t been on this ride in a while, and just this first room reminds him why it’s his favorite. A family squeezes in front of them, and Steve steps back, directly into Bucky’s chest. He moves to put some space between them, but Bucky cups his hip in one hand and he finds himself rooted firmly in place as the doors are pulled shut.</p><p>Bucky’s breath is hot against the back of his neck in the few moments of silence, and he knows that he should squirm out of his grip and put some distance between them, but Bucky’s thumb rubs circles in his side over the fabric of his shirt and he suddenly doesn’t want to move anymore. </p><p>The Ghost Host’s voice booms around them, and Bucky’s lips brush against the shell of his ear.</p><p>“Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding…” Bucky whispers along with the audio, sending a chill up Steve’s spine. “...almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis…”</p><p>The people around them gape and gasp as the room stretches around them, but Steve can only focus on the points at which Bucky is touching him. He’s hot all over, body betraying him with gentle trembles and goosebumps on his arms. Bucky chuckles quietly into his ear; he <em> has </em>to know what he’s doing. Steve just hopes, for his own dignity, that nobody is looking at them.</p><p>The doors open and, just like that, Bucky steps away from him. The absence of his body makes Steve feel suddenly and entirely chilled, and he just gapes as Bucky holds his hand out between them with a goofy grin. “Come on, Steve!”</p><p>Steve shakes himself out of his stupor enough to roll his eyes, and takes his hand.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>March</b>
</p><p>Bucky’s birthday is not a glamorous affair. As a kid, he’d counted down the days in his calendar for weeks, but as he turns twenty-six he finds himself forgetting that it’s even his birthday until Clara hands him a Disney princess birthday card. He sticks it up pride of place on the refrigerator, and kisses her on the temple.</p><p>“It’s a shame you have to work today,” she says, leaning against the counter.</p><p>Working at Disney World is probably the best way he could think to spend his birthday. It’s infinitely better than any birthday party he’s ever had, or a drunken night that he’ll forget a week later. He tells her as much as he reaches around her to get the milk. For all her complaints, she doesn’t seem to feel guilty about letting him cook breakfast.</p><p>“Besides, I’ve got plans with Sam,” he says over the hiss of the eggs in the pan.</p><p>“Oh, right,” she says, flat. “Your plans.”</p><p>He glances up, watching her dejected expression, “Is that okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” her voice is an octave too high to be convincing. “It’s just… I’ll be on my own, again.”</p><p>“Clara.”</p><p>“Don’t.” She shuts her eyes and rests her head against the top of the fridge. “Don’t fight with me, please.”</p><p>The eggs stop hissing, and he lowers the heat. “I’m not trying to fight, but come on.”</p><p>“<em> Come on </em> ?” She straightens up. So, she <em> is </em>looking for a fight. She’d definitely inherited their mother’s fieriness. “</p><p>“It’s my birthday, Clara, please don’t do this,” he sighs.</p><p>“Don’t do that,” she snaps. “Don’t treat me like a kid. <em> You </em> try being twenty one and looking after your sister.”</p><p>He grits his teeth. He knows that the past eight months have been frustrating for her; they’ve all been displaced by it, but these immature moments frustrate him. He takes a plate down from the cabinet and doesn’t slam it on the counter, no matter how much he wants to. </p><p>“You’re not looking after her. She’s sick, not useless.”</p><p>“Feels like I am,” she grumbles.</p><p>“Clara,” he warns. If she pushes any more, they’ll both start yelling, and that’s the last thing he wants at 7 in the morning on his birthday. “That’s not fair.”</p><p>“Like you can talk about not being fair! It’s not fair that I spend every day stuck inside while you go out, or that I’m practically a mom when I’ve never even had a boyfriend, or that I’m failing my degree because I’m on the other side of the fucking country!”</p><p>He shovels half the eggs onto a plate and bangs it down much harsher than he means to. He hates it when she gets like this, or the fact that Rebecca can hear every word of it if she’s awake.</p><p>“You wanna know what’s not fair?” he fights to keep his voice low and bring her back down to his level. “It’s not fair that Beck is sick. It’s not fair that Mark walked out on her because he couldn’t handle it. It’s not fair that we all live in an apartment made for two people, or that I can’t ask the guy I like back to <em> my </em>place because I sleep on the fucking couch. We all make sacrifices, you’ll understand when you finally grow up.”</p><p>Her mouth snaps shut; he’s hit a nerve. Her finger taps obsessively on the counter for a moment, jaw clenching like she’s holding herself back.</p><p>Her nostrils flare, once, and she grits out, “You’re an asshole.”</p><p>She storms out of the room, and he calls after her, immaturely, “<em> Happy fucking birthday to me! </em>”</p><p>-</p><p>“You’re in a mood,” Connie says while they wait for guests to be let into the pre-breakfast meet and greet on the ground floor of Cinderella castle. She looks beautiful, as always, but concerned. “What’s got into you?”</p><p>“Nothing,” he clips.</p><p>Maybe Clara was right; it is a shame that he has to work today. Trust her to ruin his day to prove it.</p><p>Connie senses his hostility and doesn’t push it any further. She avoids touching him as much as she can for the rest of the morning and makes excuses for him when he stumbles over his words, which helps him push through the next few hours. Through the anxious fog, he’s unbelievably grateful for her.</p><p>On his lunch break, early to make time for him to get to the Grand Floridian Resort for his next dining slot, he sits on his own in The Mouse and takes deep breaths between bites of his sandwich. It doesn’t help much, and he’s still on fire when Steve approaches him.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Steve asks. He’s in his Fantasyland costume, and it makes him look so much younger when paired with his concerned eyes.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Bucky rushes. “I’m just… I’m fine.”</p><p>“You look… uh… shaky.” Steve’s eyes flick down to his left hand, and his tact really does leave something to be desired.</p><p>Bucky places his hand on the table and covers it with his other, willing it to be still. “It’s a tremor. It gets worse when I’m… tired.”</p><p>“Oh.” Steve slips into the seat opposite him and pops the lid of his coffee. He tears open two sachets of sugar and pours them in, and the methodical movement is actually calming. “I heard Sam singing happy birthday to you this morning; I didn’t realise it was today.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Bucky remembers how he’d prickled and begged him to be quiet. “Twenty-six, baby.”</p><p>Steve chuckles, like honey. “Well, happy birthday. If you’re not sick of hearing that yet.”</p><p>For the first time all day, Bucky smiles.</p><p> </p><p>If he looks back on the past two years, Bucky can pinpoint the exact moments that had contributed to his falling in love.</p><p>His first time meeting Steve had been purely by chance, when a bout of stomach flu had taken down half the Magic Kingdom staff and forced Steve into character hosting. He’d been different then, much more reserved, his disposition somber rather than bitter. Despite this, Bucky had been sure he was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. It was a pity, really, that Steve had taken one look at him and decided that he hated him.</p><p>Steve’s exterior was tough, but he’d occasionally catch glimpses of the real Steve beneath the mask. A fond smile towards a baby in a stroller; letting a stressed mother through Fastpass even when her Magic Band scanned red; replacing a little girl’s dropped popcorn and comforting her all the way to the stand. Hell, Steve giving him the time of day feels like an act of charity.</p><p>“I’m fucked,” he laments to Sam that evening over pizza boxes spread on Sam’s living room floor. The anxiety attack that he’d dealt with all day had mostly dissipated when he’d started drinking, although he still hasn’t spoken to Clara.</p><p>Sam sips his beer, “Yeah, you are.”</p><p>“Don’t be like that!” Sam’s husband, Riley, calls from the kitchen before he emerges with two glasses of red wine. He sits on the floor on the other side of the boxes, and hands a glass to Bucky. “You’re not fucked. I think it’s nice that you’re in love.”</p><p>“Ugh,” Bucky drops his head back against the couch cushion. “I just can’t do this right now. I’ve got so much overtime, and I have to think about Rebecca…”</p><p>“And you know the rules: Don’t Date Disney,” Sam supplies helpfully.</p><p>He’s all too aware of the unspoken rule that hangs over the heads of all the cast members: no dating within Disney, especially for performers. </p><p>“Fucking Don’t Date Disney,” Bucky groans. He waves his hand in the general direction of Sam and Riley. “You’re so lucky, meeting the love of your life at eighteen while the rest of us yearn.”</p><p>He <em> feels </em>the fond look that they give each other, and sighs. He knows logically that Sam didn’t find a nice, promising commercial airline pilot to settle down with just to spite him, but there’s a bitter taste in his mouth about it anyway.</p><p>When midnight rolls around, they order him an Uber and stand at the door to see him off, Sam’s arm around Riley’s shoulders. Bucky shuts his eyes against the domesticity and leans his forehead against the cool glass. </p><p>When he finally gets home, the lamp in the living room is on, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. Clara gives him a small wave from the couch, expression drawn and tired. He wonders absently if she’s been waiting up for him.</p><p>“You look like shit,” he says, off the back of the alcohol.</p><p>She snorts a laugh, “You don’t look too perfect yourself. C’mere.”</p><p>She lifts the duvet she’s wrapped in -- <em> his </em>duvet -- and he curls into her side, hearing her heart beating steady and strong under her ribs. She presses her face against his hair. “I’m sorry for ruining your birthday.”</p><p>He could lash out at her, snap and tell her about the anxiety attack that’s only just waned, but his exhaustion overrides his anger, so he concedes. “You didn’t.”</p><p>“I kinda did,” she sighs.</p><p>He shakes his head, “I shouldn’t have said those things.”</p><p>She pauses. “Well, you were right.”</p><p>“I <em> was </em>right,” he laughs. “But, still, I shouldn’t have said it.”</p><p>“I need to grow up,” she decides. “And I need to stop being so harsh on Beck.”</p><p>“I do, too.” He pauses, listens to the soft sound of her breathing for a long moment. “I think this might be the most mature conversation we’ve ever had.”</p><p>“Speak for yourself.” She kisses the top of his head, and says, “So, tell me about this guy you like.”</p><p>He blinks, trying to recall when he’d brought up Steve, and their argument from earlier comes back to him. He buries his face in the duvet. “I forgot I said that.”</p><p>“No backing out now,” she says. “Come on, I wanna hear everything.”</p><p>Bucky sighs, “Fine. So, he works in Fantasyland…”</p><p>-</p><p>“I’m trying out a new thing.”</p><p>Natasha hops up on the table, knocking Steve’s sketchbook with her thigh as she does. Her black boots shake the bench he’s sat on, and he groans as he gets to rubbing out the jagged line he’d accidentally drawn across the page. She watches, picking at the skin of an orange and depositing the pieces into her lap, letting him know that she isn’t planning on leaving. </p><p>He puts his pencil down. “What is it?”</p><p>She flicks a piece of orange peel at him. “It’s called minding my own business. Do you want to see how long I can go for?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Natasha peels the remainder of her orange in absolute silence, long enough that Steve reaches for his pencil again. She plucks it out of his hand. “What’s going on with Bucky?”</p><p>He sighs. “That wasn’t long at all.”</p><p>She narrows her eyes, “You like him.”</p><p>“Are we in high school?”</p><p>“You <em> do </em>!” She drums her feet on the bench ecstatically, voice pitching up into an off-key tune. “You like him, you like him, you like him!”</p><p>“I’m starting to think you’re actually fifteen,” he deadpans. </p><p>“What is it, then?” she asks. “Is it his brown eyes? Or his princely charm?”</p><p>“You’re such a dick,” he replies, and successfully liberates his pencil from her grip while she continues to list off all of Bucky’s attributes.</p><p>He looks back at his page and tries desperately not to blush.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>April</b>
</p><p>As it does every April, word of the Great Pepper Potts Birthday Bash travels through Magic Kingdom like wildfire. The party is the social event of the year, even more so than Tony’s own birthday, which is far more understated.</p><p>However, despite how legendary it promises to be, Steve isn’t planning on going. Or, at least, he’s planning on leaving after half an hour like he has every year, until he gets a text from Bucky the morning of April tenth that just reads: <b> <em>Stark party - yes/no?</em> </b></p><p>Bucky is the most succinct texter that Steve has ever met. He uses as little words as possible, sometimes cutting out the vowels, too if he’s in a ruhs, and he avoids the Apple-provided emojis at all costs. Which is why, obviously, Steve uses as many as possible in his response.</p><p>Thumbs up. <b> <em>Probably won’t stay long</em> </b> <b>. </b>Clock. Tired face. Bed.</p><p><b> <em>Why? </em> </b>Sad face (colon, open bracket).</p><p>Old man face.</p><p>
  <b> <em>C u there Carl.</em> </b>
</p><p>House. Balloon. Dog.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus…” Carol exhales as they pull up to the Stark house that evening. Her and Natasha had managed to get Steve in an Uber, despite his assurance that they <em> would </em> be kidnapped and murdered, and all three of them are pressed into the backseat. “How rich <em> are </em> these people?”</p><p>She leans over them both to gape out at the house. He remembers having a similar reaction the first time he’d seen it, but he’s been to so many parties and dinners and souries at the house that he’s far desensitised to their wealth by now.</p><p>The Uber drops them off at the end of the driveway, and Natasha and Carol cling to each other to steady themselves on the gravel. They’re far more dressed up than he is, in a simple button-up and jeans. He likes to call his fashion sense <em> appropriately understated </em> , but Natasha had called it <em> boring </em>.</p><p>A kind-faced, greying man in a tux is waiting in the grand foyer, a leather clipboard resting on one arm. He smiles at them as they enter, and ticks them off the list without asking their names.</p><p>“Mr Rogers,” he says. “Always a pleasure.”</p><p>“Evening, Jarvis,” Steve replies. Any guest who’s spent more than an hour in the Stark house knows Jarvis, and how vehement Tony is about respect. He takes Natasha and Carol’s coats, and sends them all through to the party.</p><p>“Right, where’s the booze?” Natasha immediately hollers, and drags Carol in the direction of the kitchen. Steve, on the other hand, wanders to an open door on the right hand side.</p><p>The living room is bustling, people mill in and out of the doors on either end of the room, either expertly avoiding or joining the throng of people dancing in the center. At the far end, there’s some commotion, and finding the heart of it isn’t difficult considering it’s 6’4 and stood on a snooker table</p><p>Steve picks up a champagne flute from a passing server, and squeezes around the sweaty dancers to join the small crowd that has gathered to observe Bucky’s spectacle.</p><p>“<em> The bodies of men and women engirth me, and I engirth them! </em>” he calls, as if performing to an adoring audience. A ridiculous sheer button-up clings to his sturdy frame, undone all the way to his navel and flapping open as he waves his arm around passionately, a Walt Whitman poetry collection clutched in his right hand, although he’s barely reading from it.</p><p>“<em> The expression of the body of man balks account… </em> ” Bucky throws his arms open, and tips his head to cry towards the ceiling. A thin sheen of sweat glints across his exposed skin. “ <em> The male is… perfect. </em>”</p><p>Steve vaguely recalls the poem from his college seminars. As vague as his memory is, he’s sure he remembers there being female pronouns included. </p><p><em> If only old man Disney could see Prince Charming now, drunk out of his mind and removing the women from Walt Whitman </em>. Steve lets out an elated holler at the sheer thought, and Bucky turns on him with faint surprise on his inebriated features.</p><p>“<em> To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem… </em> ” he continues, eyes boring into Steve’s even across the room and the crowd. “ <em> Perhaps more, you linger to see his back and the back of his neck and shoulderside </em>.”</p><p>The weight of his words dries Steve’s mouth, and he takes a sip of his champagne. Although, if Bucky keeps looking at him like that, he thinks his mouth might be dry forever.</p><p>Bucky dips into a theatrical bow, which sends raucous applause through his audience, and then steps off the snooker table easily. The crowd disperses with nothing to keep them, and Bucky pushes through them towards Steve. He smells like whisky and nicotine, and Steve wants to step closer to him to enjoy it.</p><p>“Whitman,” he says instead, just about keeping his composure. “I’m impressed.”</p><p>“English minor,” Bucky waves the book. He isn’t quite as drunk as Steve had first thought. “I found this in Tony’s library and I couldn’t resist.”</p><p>Steve clicks his teeth, “Stealing books, now, are we?”</p><p>“Do you wanna help me return it?”</p><p>Bucky apparently knows his way around the Stark house, so he leads them back through the entrance hall and up the stairs to the second floor. The upper level is less hectic than downstairs, but a fair amount of people still pass them in the hallway. Bucky counts the doors as they go, and pushes at the fifth one.</p><p>The Stark’s library is about as big as Steve’s entire apartment. It’s as modern as the rest of the house, and it’s missing the signature musty library smell. The shelf for the Ws is fairly close to the door, and Bucky runs his fingertips across each spine.</p><p>“You like Whitman, then?” he asks as he slides the book back into its rightful place.</p><p>Steve waves a hand, recalling another Whitman line that he half-remembers, “<em> And what I assume, you shall assume </em>.”</p><p>Bucky blinks, plush mouth open a little. He wets his lips, and his heated gaze has Steve’s heart thundering. His voice drops into a low, fascinated timbre, “Where did you come from?”</p><p>Steve shrugs, finding his own voice quiet and strained, “I’ve been here.”</p><p>“Mhm,” Bucky hums, still searching Steve’s face with curious brown eyes. He presses up against Steve, crowding him in against the shelves, and Steve’s fingertips press to the exposed skin of his chest. Bucky shivers. “What do you want, Steve?”</p><p>“I want…” Steve’s breath catches as Bucky bows his head and rests the subtle bridge of his nose against his forehead. Steve shuts his eyes against the warmth of his breath and skids his arms down Bucky’s torso, pulling another shiver out of him. He hopes that says enough.</p><p>Bucky whispers, barely audible, “Can I…”</p><p>Steve kisses him, because there are no words that could illustrate the true gravity of his answer.</p><p>-</p><p>Let the record show that, for all intents and purposes, Steve Rogers is <em> not </em>delicate. He’s unpredictable and vehement, red-hot in his temperament, and he kisses like he does everything else: intensely, deliberately. His hand tangles itself in Bucky’s hair and stays there, a delicious sting at five points of his scalp. Bucky’s sure he was in control when they started, but that’s futile now, because Steve soon has him pressed up against one of the bookshelves. </p><p>“Steve.” He isn’t entirely sure what he wants to say, just that every single one of his senses is on fire, every signal in his brain is lighting up with <em> SteveSteveSteve </em>until he can’t think of anything else. He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this. “Steve.”</p><p>Steve’s hand tightens in his hair, and heat shoots up Bucky’s spine. “Don’t. Just… don’t ruin this.”</p><p>There’s a short knock on the door of the library.</p><p>“Occupied!” Bucky manages to call before Steve tugs him down by the back of his neck.</p><p>“I know!” Sam’s voice comes through the door, and Bucky freezes while Steve incessantly kisses the side of his mouth. “If there’s anything out I don’t wanna see, put it away now!”</p><p>Steve’s expression drops into an unimpressed scowl, and Bucky presses his face into his hair and laughs. Sam might be an idiot, but he’s not cruel. He just looks over them proudly and leans against the doorframe. “Our ride’s outside, unless you’re busy here…”</p><p>Bucky looks down at Steve, posing a question, and Steve looks back up at him with eyes holding a clear answer. There are a thousand things he wants to do with Steve, a thousand things that he’s <em> not </em> doing in <em> Tony Stark’s fucking library </em>, and he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance again.</p><p>Sam raises an eyebrow, bemused, and Bucky decides, “I’m busy.”</p><p>“Alright,” Sam chuckles. “Don’t have too much fun.”</p><p>The door clicks shut, and Steve drops his forehead onto Bucky’s chest, shoulders shaking with soft laughter. “I can’t believe we just did that.”</p><p>“You started it,” Bucky replies.</p><p>Steve gasps, “I did <em> not </em>start it.”</p><p>“You kissed me first.” Bucky kisses him again to silence his inevitable protest. It’s less imbued with the urgency and passion from earlier, but Steve still lets out a small, needy moan into his mouth.</p><p>“We should go to your place.”</p><p>Bucky swallows anxiously. “I… Let’s go to yours, instead.”</p><p>“Isn’t your place closer?” Steve ducks his head to mouth at Bucky’s jaw.</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” Bucky’s fingers slip into Steve’s hair as he licks over sensitive skin. “I’ve got… uh… mice.”</p><p>Steve pulls back, expression quizzical, “Mice?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Mice. Real bad. They’re everywhere. Fuckin’ disgusting.”</p><p>“Right, okay. My place it is.”</p><p>An hour and copious amounts of Stark-provided alcohol later, they stumble down the street towards Steve’s apartment, leaning heavily on each other while Bucky recites Whitman to the heavens. One arm slung around Steve’s shoulder, he lifts the other to the sky, “<em> O truth of the earth! O truth of things! </em>”</p><p>“Bucky! Shush!” Steve hisses, bringing his finger to his lips. Bucky looks at him, confused, and Steve gestures up to the building. “Neighbors.”</p><p>“Oh, right.” Bucky copies Steve’s action, first finger clumsily covering his lips. He makes a show of lowering his voice, “<em> I am determined to prove the whole way toward you… </em>”</p><p>He grabs Steve by the hand and spins him in a clumsy pirouette until their bodies crash together. </p><p>“<em> Sound your voice! </em> ” he cries, and takes Steve’s face in both of his hands, looking suddenly grave. “ <em> I scale mountains or dive in the sea after you </em>.”</p><p>It feels like a promise, which he seals with a kiss that Steve sinks easily into. He can’t believe there was a time when they weren’t kissing like this, drunk and joyous on the street outside his apartment, Bucky’s big hands sliding from his face to the back of his neck to keep him there.</p><p>-</p><p>When Bucky blinks heavy eyes open the next morning, it’s to the freckled expanse of Steve’s back, illuminated in streaks of mid-morning sunlight. He’s lying on his stomach, face turned away and sheets tangled up around his waist, allowing Bucky to run the tip of his middle finger down the center of his back as if reading the divots of his spine. Steve shudders in his sleep, and Bucky presses a soft kiss to a freckle at the nape of his neck. Steve mumbles something incoherent.</p><p>“What was that?” Bucky kisses another freckle, and then another.</p><p>Steve turns his head so that his cheek is flat against the pillow, his voice is rough. “Said g’morning.”</p><p>“Good morning.” Bucky smiles against the constellations of freckles on Steve’s shoulder. He wants to press his lips to every one of them, and he won’t let Steve go until he has.</p><p>Steve turns himself over with a sigh, and Bucky almost complains about his mission being interrupted until Steve blinks at him and skims fingertips across his sternum. The hold Steve has over him is mortifying. One touch, and he crumples.</p><p>“Buck,” he says, weighted, and Bucky thinks <em> this is it </em> . He sees the rejection laid out in front of him, <em> thanks, but no thanks </em>, and he wonders if he could handle going back to dancing around each other.</p><p>He wants to stave it off as long as possible, so he takes his time to breathe in this perfect moment before he says, “Yeah?”</p><p>Steve chews on his bottom lip, postponing the inevitable, and his eyes follow the path of his fingertips across Bucky’s collarbone. “I know I’ve been a dick to you, but I’d appreciate a second chance. A chance to… I don’t know, make it right.”</p><p>Relief floods Bucky’s body, and he lets out an elated laugh that makes Steve widen his eyes in surprise. Bucky snakes his arms around his middle, and tugs Steve close.</p><p>“You’ve made it right, Steve,” he says. “You’ve made it right.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. part two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <b>May</b>
</p><p>
  <span>As May reaches its peak, inviting in the sticky warmth of the summer, Bucky wakes up in Steve’s king size bed for the third time in a week. Steve is wrapped in the white sheets despite the heat, and his skin is cool when Bucky pulls him close. He loves the smell of the morning on Steve, the dull essence of salt and day-old cologne at the dip of his shoulder, the heady shampoo scent of blonde hair at his nape. He presses his nose against it and asks, simply, “Coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna marry you,” Steve murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had taken him a while to work out Steve’s fancy coffee machine, but he’s got it down to a fine art now. He sets it to pour, and feels a pair of arms snake around his waist. Steve rests his forehead against the middle of his shoulders and sighs happily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps the most surprising thing he’s learned about Steve is how affectionate he is. He has a strong rule against PDA at work, because he has an image to protect, but Bucky doesn’t miss his shudder when he slips a hand into his back pocket in public, or how quick he is to climb into Bucky’s lap the moment they’re alone. He essentially becomes a glorified lap dog, happy as long as Bucky’s touching him; stroking his hair or petting at his thigh or a solid weight to lean against when he’s half-awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oat milks in the fridge,” Steve mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Bucky replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satisfied, Steve yawns and pads out of the kitchen. Over the hissing of the machine, Bucky hears a rustle of paper and the squeaking of springs as Steve settles on the couch. He puts the oat milk back in the wrong place when he’s done because he likes the way it makes Steve huff, and follows him into the living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve is settled in the corner of the couch, flipping through a gossip magazine like it’s the daily paper. His glasses are slipping off the bridge of his nose comically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ditched for </span>
  <em>
    <span>In Touch</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I see how it is.” Bucky hands Steve his mug and sits on the other end of the couch and picks up the book he’d left on the arm of the couch. Steve wiggles his cold toes under Bucky’s thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t know whether Khloe Kardashian is pregnant again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky hums thoughtfully, flipping to the marked page. “Is she?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Body shaming assholes,” Steve replies. He takes a sip of his coffee and smiles to himself, eyes slipping closed momentarily in appreciation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s his own, understated way of saying thank you, and Bucky loops one hand around his ankle to let him know he understands. He passes his thumb over the prominent bone and watches Steve’s face as he reads, appreciating these serene moments before they’ll be up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their relationship is more perfect than Steve could have ever expected. It’s better than any of his previous relationships, which have admittedly been short-lived. But, well, sometimes he still has to draw the line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going on the teacups.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky pouts and rests his cheek against the silver handrail, utilising his best puppy dog eyes. “Come on, Steve, it’s my favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re all your favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monorail jolts, and Bucky’s hand presses against the small of his back, both steadying him and pulling him close. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>my favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Steve says, but he allows himself to be tugged into a soft kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pushing Bucky away still feels easier than letting him in, and his gut screams at him to keep Bucky at arm's length before he can get sick of him and leave. The war between his current happiness and his lingering self-doubt makes his head ache, and he turns his face into Bucky’s shirt. He breathes in the distinctive biblichor smell of him, mixed with the fruity soap from Steve’s shower, and allows himself to feel grateful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A family stares at them from the other end of the car, and Steve can feel the weight of their poorly-masked disgust on his neck. Bucky rubs a hand down his arm, slipping it easily into the back pocket of his jeans, and says, “Don’t worry about them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think they recognise Charming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky sends a winning smile in their direction and speaks through his teeth, “Doubt it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Steve straightens up; there’s only so much PDA he can take in one sitting, and he can see that they’ve nearly reached the station. Bucky’s hand stays a solid weight in his back pocket until the doors slide open, when he links their fingers instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still not going on the teacups.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coming back into the real world after a day milling around Magic Kingdom with Bucky is like being submerged in an ice bath with no warning, but Bucky had to go home at some point, and Steve is running dangerously low on groceries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hates the bright lights and screaming kids and queueing; it’s like work but worse. He procrastinates the trip until ten minutes before closing, when seemingly the only other people in the aisles are underpaid workers and drunk teenagers. He stares at his list, scribbled on an old receipt, and tries to remember when he started drinking 1% fat milk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never did, he realises as he reaches for the carton, Bucky does. He must have added it to his list when he wasn’t looking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he reaches up for the carton, his hand bumps a woman’s reaching for the same one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” they say at the same time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jinx,” she says, with a bemused smile. Her accent has a very slight regional twang, and there’s an echo of familiarity in her face that bothers him like an itch. “Here you go, I’ll just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hands him the carton, and picks up another one for herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Thanks,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No worries,” she replies. Her face falters a little, apprehensively, before she says, “This is gonna sound so weird, but are you Steve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve just blinks at her, no doubt looking somewhat frenzied. He can’t place her for the life of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Rebecca,” she says. The name doesn’t mean anything to him. “Has Bucky not mentioned me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, her recognisable features make sense. Bucky has shared remarkably little about himself, but he briefly recalls him mentioning a sister who lives in Florida. He wonders why he hasn’t talked about her more, when he looks at the kind-faced woman in front of him, but quickly checks himself. It isn’t up to him to police what Bucky shares with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does want to make a good impression on Bucky’s family, though, and he hasn’t done a very good job so far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, let me, uh…” He drops the milk carton into his basket and holds out his hand. “Steve Rogers, it’s nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes his hand with a laugh, her skin smooth against his. “It’s lovely to finally meet you. I mean, Bucky never shuts up about you, so it’s nice to see you in the flesh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bucky never shuts up about you</span>
  </em>
  <span> echoes in his head like a church organ, and he has to ground himself a little to stop himself from keeling over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never been a convincing liar so he ends up saying, “I wish I could say the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, you should come over sometime and meet us properly!” she suggests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” he says. “I’ll… talk to Bucky about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only when he’s leaving the store, searching for Bucky’s number in his contacts, that February’s mysterious phone call comes back to him. In the space between ringtones, he hears Bucky pleading with someone called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky’s working on reminding himself that he doesn’t have to spend </span>
  <em>
    <span>every </span>
  </em>
  <span>moment with Steve, so he spends his next day off doing household chores and trying not to obsessively check his phone. He takes the garbage out and brings it back in and takes it out again, reorganises the kitchen cabinets until they’re back to how they were when he started, and then buzzes around the apartment like an erratic fly until Clara threatens to bludgeon him with her laptop if he doesn’t sit down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rebecca announces that Espe needs fresh air in the early afternoon. It’s definitely a way to get him out of Clara’s way before she makes good on her promise, but he jumps at the chance to stretch his legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky takes charge of the stroller, just for something to do with his hands, but Rebecca constantly checks on the multiple fans they have to keep Espe cool as they round the corner into the nearest city park. There are a few kids clambering over a climbing frame near them, their parents lounging on picnic blankets under umbrellas in the grass, but it’s quiet enough that he’s not worried about Rebecca becoming overwhelmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small Yorkshire Terrier runs across their path, and Rebecca links her arm through his. “You’re happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure what her tone implies, but it’s nice to see her smile. “I could say the same thing about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>happy,” she says, as if the words are still foreign. “But </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t have a boyfriend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flushes, watching the dog as it runs up ahead and then diverges from the path towards its owner. There’s a lot of evidence pointing towards her being correct, but their relationship status isn’t a discussion they’ve had frankly yet. “He’s not my boyfriend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She considers that for a moment, and then nods. “No, you’re right. Most people’s boyfriends have been to their apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bucky,” she counters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that I don’t want him there, okay? It’s just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That you’re embarrassed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t tell if she’s still joking; she doesn’t seem particularly perturbed, but the insinuation puts a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m not embarrassed. I could never be embarrassed of you, yeah? I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have invited him over when I met him yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The comment is so offhanded that he almost misses it. He stops, the stroller squealing to a halt. “When you did </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was at the grocery store buying the milk you like,” she shrugs. “I recognised him off your phone background so I invited him over. Anytime he wants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The photo is his favorite; the photo from after Splash Mountain that Steve still doesn’t know that he has. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t know that it’s his background, and Bucky makes a mental note to change it as soon as they get home. “And you didn’t tell me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It should sound angry, but it just sounds a little desponded. She looks at him sympathetically. “You were never gonna do it, so I figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sounds so much like their mom it’s scary, and makes it ridiculously hard to be mad at her. “Fine. I’ll talk to him about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Conveniently, May is the first month of the summer guest surge, so Bucky spends the next few days either working or sleeping and all but forgets about his promise. When he finally finds a moment to tug Steve into an empty janitor’s closet and kiss him breathless, he’s hardly thinking about anything other than pressing himself against the smooth line of Steve’s body and reducing the man to fitful half-gasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Careful… of your…” Steve gestures vaguely to Bucky’s costume. In response, Bucky mouths at the sensitive skin beneath Steve’s chin. His head falls back against the wall, concerns forgotten as his hands push at the front of Bucky’s shirt. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky grins wickedly and works his hand between them to pop the button of Steve’s pants, lavishing in how Steve gasps into his mouth. He dips his fingers below Steve’s waistband, and Steve grabs at his back and blurts, “I met your sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky blinks slowly, clearing his lust-hazed vision. “Are we seriously talking about this right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Steve looks sheepish. “I just… didn’t know when to tell you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you decided to do it now?” Bucky glances down, taking in the way Steve’s shirt is hitched up to expose his flushed, lean torso, and manages to laugh at their predicament. It’s the first time he’s had his hands on him in almost a week, and Steve’s interrupting it to talk about Rebecca. Of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves his hand once, and Steve’s head falls back again. He takes the chance to nip at his Adam’s apple, and Steve clutches at his back again as he works his mouth over the sticky expanse of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She asked me to come over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Bucky presses his forehead against Steve’s shoulder. “You really want to talk about this, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve opens his mouth, but then Bucky twists his wrist and he shudders. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, do that again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At your service,” Bucky says, and does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve falls silent for a long moment besides labored breaths, then tips his forehead into the crook of Bucky’s neck and says, “She seems nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Steve</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Bucky pulls his hand out of Steve’s pants and rests it against the warm skin of his hip instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve’s bottom lip curls between his teeth, “Sorry, I’m not -- I just can’t stop thinking about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Bucky rubs his thumb over Steve’s hipbone. “Talk to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to come over,” Steve says. “Honestly, I’ve been curious since you mentioned the mice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They hide in my hat and help me cook,” Bucky jokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve laughs once and lightly bats at his arm, “Remy is a rat. Answer the question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky sighs, “If I say yes, will you let me get you off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve tilts his chin up. He knows he’s won. “Go on, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three days later, Steve finds himself outside Bucky’s front door. The building is much nicer than he’d expected; the lobby bears a much closer resemblance to a Hilton Resort than an apartment block, and the hallway he’s stood in is wide and well-lit. He’d been under no impression that Bucky was poor -- he remembers vague mentions of his mother’s political career, something to do with a trust fund -- but he still finds himself at a loss for words. He hadn’t known there even </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>places this nice in Florida.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bell chimes under a gentle press, and his heart leaps to his throat. Should he have brought something? What would Bucky even want? There’s some rumbling from behind the door that he only barely picks up, a muffled conversation followed by the click of a lock as the door swings open and --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- there’s Bucky, with a baby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steve.” Relief seeps through the vowels of his name before Bucky quirks one eyebrow. “You’re wearing glasses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve grimaces. He doesn’t feel like talking about this morning’s arduous and unsuccessful battle with his contacts. “Can I come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course!” Bucky expertly shifts the baby so that Steve can pass, the fingertips of his other hand grazing against the small of Steve’s back as he kicks the door shut behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apartment is surprisingly modest for its size. Steve glances around the living room, which is furnished with worn couches and a scratched glass coffee table. The cream walls are lined with posters, some that he recognises from the Disney gift shops -- Space Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean -- with some framed photographs scattered between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One stands out amongst them all as the biggest, a family photo set against the backdrop of Cinderella castle. The photo is yellowing slightly, but it still sits pride of place. He scans the perfect smiling of Winifred Barnes, wearing a refined blouse and skirt even on vacation. Her husband is wearing a garishingly contrasting patterned shirt, hand on the shoulder of a young Bucky. He looks almost the same, even his wild, gap-toothed grin, and a pair of Mickey ears sitting jauntily atop his curls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hair gets tugged, and he turns to see the baby in Bucky’s arms watching him with fascinated brown eyes, arm outstretched towards him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, I--” Bucky shifts the baby on his hip so that she drops her hand. “This is Espe, she’s Beck’s daughter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She reaches one pudgy little arm out towards him again. Steve has no idea how to interact with a child, so he does what he usually does when a baby is thrust in his direction at work -- he presses one finger against her palm and says, softly, “Hi, Espe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She babbles happily and reaches out further, Michelangelo-esque, and nearly falls out of Bucky’s arms with the effort. “Ah,” Bucky says. “She likes glasses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Steve asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky’s face flushes. He shoves at Steve’s hip. “You know I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a crash from somewhere behind them, and he follows the direction of the barely-stifled laughter to meet the eyes of two chestnut-haired women, peering out of the kitchen door and giggling like children. He recognises Rebecca instantly, although she looks decidedly different outside of artificial supermarket light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” the other woman says, stifling her giggles behind an olive-skinned hand. Steve can’t remember her name, or if Bucky had ever mentioned it, but her carbon-copy face leaves no doubt that she’s the third Barnes sibling. Her accent is stronger than Bucky’s. “We were trying to give you privacy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky gestures between them vaguely. “Steve, Clara and Rebecca. Clara and Rebecca, Steve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clara surges forward to take his hand in both of hers. Up close, she looks even more like Bucky than he’d thought, and her hands are soft and warm. She guides him towards the couch. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, we’ve got </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much </span>
  </em>
  <span>to talk about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprisingly, the shovel talk is hardly a shovel talk at all. She asks him about work, about how he and Bucky met, and she’s all interested brown eyes and no questions when he gets prickly after she asks about his family. She just picks up the conversation again, never letting it lull into discomfort until Bucky comes over to them, sans child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dinner’s ready,” he glances between them warily. “I hope she hasn’t scared you too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been nice, actually,” Clara says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky glances at Steve hopefully, “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve smiles comfortably, and nods. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They settle down at the oak dinner table that has, like everything else in the apartment, seen better days. Clara takes the seat next to Steve, so Bucky sits opposite them with Espe settled on his lap, refusing to be lifted into her high chair. There’s something different about Bucky, etched deep into the set of his shoulders and the soft lines of his mouth downturned into a thoughtful frown. Clara pinches his cheek and he smiles, just once, the smallest flash of white teeth that grows when Espe pokes the other cheek and giggles.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not jealous of a baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Steve reminds himself as he half-listens to Clara talk about her degree. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not at all. Nope</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rebecca is standing over him, holding a bottle of white wine over his glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he says. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being around the Barnes clan is a bit like having three Buckys in one room. They’re connected in a way that only siblings can be, a way that Steve could never hope to understand or infiltrate, but he’s content to sit back and watch them bounce off each other, piping up occasionally when called on. Bucky keeps glancing at him with the same concerned expression, and Steve nods and smiles reassuringly, which satisfies Bucky for about five minutes each time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they’ve finished eating, Rebecca puts Espe down for the night and the rest of them move to the couches. Steve finds himself tucked under Bucky’s arm on one, and Clara lounges on the other, eventually joined by Rebecca. Steve finds himself relaxing with the more casual setup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has Bucky told you about why he moved to Florida?” Rebecca asks eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve shakes his head, and Bucky makes an indignant noise, “We’re not talking about that!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, we </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>are!” Clara calls. Her Brooklyn accent is far stronger than Bucky and Rebecca’s anyway, but it only seems to have gotten more severe throughout the evening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Bucky pleads. He looks down at Steve, and the stubble on his chin scrapes at Steve’s temple. “You can say no to her, you know that right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the problem?” Steve asks, genuinely confused as to what could be so embarrassing about the story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clara laughs obnoxiously, and Bucky hides his face in his hands. “Oh, God.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are in for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>treat</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mr Rogers,” Rebecca places her wine glass down and rubs her hands together. “Our lovely Bucky was a terrible anxious kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Terribly repressed,” Clara corrects, and Rebecca bursts out laughing. Bucky tenses a little, and Steve rubs a hand over his thigh to assure him he’s not actually making fun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But there was this guy he met at school who was…” Rebecca waves a hand in the air. “He was perfect, apparently. Captain of the football team, a real Aaron Samuels type. And Bucky was in </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Well, they’d never actually spoken, but Bucky was convinced he was the love of his life. So, when he found out that he was moving to Melbourne after high school, he applied for school in Florida thinking it would be his chance to get in the guy’s pants, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clara jumps up, unable to contain her excitement, “Turns out he was moving to Melbourne, Australia, not Melbourne in Florida!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of the sisters collapse into laughter, and Steve chuckles a little. It isn’t quite as funny as they’re making out, but the idea of young Bucky being so uselessly gay is charming. He glances up for approval, but Bucky isn’t laughing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I actually only moved here because mom didn’t trust you to be on your own,” he says. His tone is still fairly light, but it stops the conversation in its tracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rebecca blinks. “Wow, okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jamie,” Clara says. “That wasn’t kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky swallows visibly and doesn’t answer. Rebecca gets up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you going?” Clara asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bed,” she replies, clipped. “I’m not putting up with this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glances at Bucky again before she leaves, expression icy. She’s obviously a woman of great defences, capable of putting up walls and keeping them there. Steve sees a lot of himself in her, in that way, and the thought makes him duck out from under Bucky’s arm. It feels wrong to fully take his side on this, somehow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” Clara says, somehow both stern and gentle. “That was too far.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky’s knuckles whiten where his hand is balled in his lap, expression painted with anguished regret that Steve’s never seen on him before. It’s ugly and pained, and he just wants to reach across and smooth out the twisted line of his brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re not gonna answer me now?” Clara says. “Fucking typical.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She follows Rebecca out, the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut following her. They sit in silence, the passing seconds punctuated only by Bucky’s breathing, until Steve thinks they might both suffocate between the walls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to take a walk?” Steve asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice seems to bring Bucky back into the room. His hands relax a little, flexing against his jeans as he nods. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following his forwardness at Stark’s party, Bucky has managed to mostly drop any concerns about embarrassing himself in front of Steve. They’ve spent enough time together over the past few months that it doesn’t matter when he does something stupid, but the idea of embarrassing Rebecca in front of him is mortifying. Knowing that Steve has seen him upset her like that makes his stomach turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The spring air is clear and pleasant, but the denim jacket he’d grabbed on their way out is stifling him. The emergency packet of cigarettes he keeps in his pocket is like a stone, so he tugs it out and taps it twice on the back of his hand before placing one between his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s inherently aware of Steve watching him, so he holds the packet out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, no,” Steve says. “Asthma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Bucky replies. He should have known. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve just shakes his head and watches him light the cigarette. He usually only smokes when he’s drunk for fear of stinking of tobacco at work, but he figures that if Steve doesn’t hate him for what he said to Rebecca, a quick smoke is hardly going to push him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They come across a raised stoop in the doorway of a shut-down deli, and Steve sits. Bucky sits beside him, and focuses on the rhythmic motions of bringing the smoke to his mouth that remind him of sneaking out to the fire escape of his college dorm. He misses that time, when his biggest concerns were his next assignment deadline and what to wear to impress guys in the library.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances at Steve, eventually. The gentle slope of his nose is illuminated by his phone screen as he taps on about something. Maybe it’s not all bad. None of his college boyfriends would sit on a stoop in silence, patiently waiting for him to be ready.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You probably think I’m an ass,” Bucky says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve blinks cartoonishly behind his glasses as his eyes adjust to the dark street. “I don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” The words come out in a cloud of smoke, so he turns his face away to avoid breathing it right into Steve’s face. “That was pretty bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s family, I get it,” Steve says, uncertainly. “You didn’t mean it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The statement hangs between them deliberately, and Bucky sighs another cloud into the dark street. “I think I might have. A little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s okay, too,” Steve decides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounds so </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it that Bucky almost starts to believe it. He presses the heel of his hand into his eye socket, where he can feel the tendrils of a headache. “She’s sick. Or, well, was. Is. Maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve doesn’t say anything, but his palm slides over to rest on Bucky’s knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was diagnosed a while ago. Depression, at first, then bipolar. She handled it so well, got herself therapy and medication and moved out here to start fresh. She met her husband, Mark, and then when she got pregnant she came off her meds cold turkey. It -- it was fine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>was fine, but after Espe was born it was clear that there was something wrong… Mark couldn’t handle it, because he’s a dick, so he walked out on her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clenches a fist involuntarily thinking about the things that he could do to that man for fucking Rebecca over like that.  “...I thought we could deal with it on our own, at first. I wasn't gonna send her to a psych ward with a newborn and I had a spare room, anyway, so I moved them in with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The back of his throat starts to burn. He swallows against it and forces himself to continue. “Mom sent Clara over, because obviously sending a twenty year old across the country was a better option than me. We couldn’t cope. We couldn’t… I couldn’t… I’m not…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chokes, and Steve’s hand tightens on his knee. Tears have started to force themselves out, and he scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hands until he sees stars. It’s the first time he’s said this to anyone, and his body fights against it tooth and nail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not coping, and it breaks my fucking heart because she’s the one who’s been through hell, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>can’t fucking handle it. I’m pathetic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buck,” Steve says softly. “You’re not pathetic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a nice gesture, but hardly enough to sate the ache in Bucky’s chest. Steve’s fingertips ghost up his arm, past his wrist, and pluck the cigarette out of his hand. He grinds it out on the sidewalk, and then coaxes Bucky’s arms down until he can get gentle palms on his face, gently guiding him to look him in the eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not pathetic,” Steve repeats. “You’re overwhelmed. You're putting too much on yourself because you think it makes you a good brother, but all it’s doing is burning you out. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be burnt out. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be overwhelmed. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t make you pathetic. Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says it with such stern certainty that Bucky can’t help but believe it a little. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s unconvincing, but Steve smiles anyway. “Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans in a little, posing a question, and Steve answers by closing the gap between them. The kiss isn’t heated at all, and the stickiness of Bucky’s face makes it kind of gross, but it fills him with content warmth; Steve has heard all of his shit and even experienced it firsthand, yet he’ll still kiss him on the street while his face is still wet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses the bridge of his nose against Steve’s forehead and asks, out loud yet introspective, “What did I do to deserve you?”</span>
</p><p><span>Steve chuckles. “Don’t speak too soon; you haven’t heard half of my</span> <span>shit yet.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Not yet,” Bucky repeats, feeling a little dazed from crying. “Could we go back to your place? I don’t think I can deal with them tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Come on…” Steve links their hands together and stands up from the stoop, pulling Bucky up with him. “Your carriage awaits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky wakes up with his face pressed into one of Steve’s fancy feather pillows, surrounded by the familiar smells that haunt his apartment. Steve had practically forced him into the shower last night, so his hair smells like citrus and his muscles feel placid and loose from the steam as he rolls onto his back. There had been freshly washed pajamas waiting for him when he got out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>pajamas that apparently now have a permanent place in Steve’s closet, and despite the emotional ache in his head he feels comfortable and content and </span>
  <em>
    <span>cared for.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the half-open door, he hears the distinct sounds of Steve’s prized coffee machine. He forces his heavy limbs out of the bed to follow the sound to the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips onto a bar stool and watches the muscles of Steve’s back shift beneath his skin. He’d once categorized Steve as skinny, but he’s since learned his body: slim yet defined, graceful and strong. He’s got him memorised from the delicate curves of his ankles to the straight blonde of his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve notices him eventually and smiles sleepily, glasses awry. “Morning. Feeling better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky nods into the soft kiss that Steve gives him over the counter. “Shower helped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Told you so,” Steve says. “Did you speak to Rebecca?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs and shakes his head. He knows he has to at some point, because he can’t just leave it where it is, but he’d like to live in blissful ignorance for a little while longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for last night, by the way. I haven’t told anyone any of that before,” he says. “Especially not about Beck’s illness; she’s always worried about people knowing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flash of guilt crosses Steve’s face. It’s there and gone in under a second, before he schools his expression into careful sympathy, but Bucky latches onto that momentary falter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.” Steve turns back to the coffee machine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your face, you looked…” Bucky drops his head into his hands. “Nevermind, I’m being ridiculous. God, I hate this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence stretches between them for a few moments, until Steve breaks it. “I have to tell you something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky glances up. Steve has turned around again, bracing himself against the counter. He looks anywhere but at Bucky’s face, “I… I knew about your sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky’s entire world shatters apart. “You knew?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buck,” Steve says, damage control. “Let me explain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Bucky says reflexively. He staggers off the barstool and crosses his arms, holding his ribcage together. “How did you know? What did you… How would you even… Jesus Christ…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I overheard you on the phone,” Steve says, and he at least has the decency to look ashamed of himself. “I didn’t know what it was about, but I guessed it was your sister and that she was sick, somehow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not specific, but it’s good enough to drill holes in Bucky’s trust. His voice is quieter than he intends, wobbling under the effort of keeping it together. “When?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When?” He gets stuck on the first sound, elongating it until he has to start again. “When did you hear it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few months ago,” Steve says, and then. “February, maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The burning in his throat returns, and his stomach twists in nauseating knots as he thinks about it. This whole time, their entire relationship has been underscored by this and he didn’t know. “Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Steve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves, because that’s all he knows how to do. He changes back into his clothes from the night before, and he walks out, straight past Steve who makes no attempt at stopping him. He picks a direction and walks, until his lungs burn and his shins scream for him to stop, and then he sits on the curb and dials Rebecca’s number, leg bouncing as he waits for her to pick up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got some audacity,” Rebecca says in lieu of a hello. He doesn't care. He deserves it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beck, I’m so fucking sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line where Bucky thinks she’s hung up, before she says, much softer. “Jesus Christ, what’s happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” he starts, but his voice catches. “I’m just sorry. I shouldn’t have… I don’t know why I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bucky, it’s okay. It’s okay. Where are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks around, and realises he’d ended up circling right back to where he’d started. His head pounds. “Steve’s.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, I’m sending a cab. Just wait there, okay?” The concern in her voice stabs him in the heart again; he doesn't deserve her kindness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he says, and then, again. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop it,” some of the stern quality returns to her voice. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wishes that was true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>June</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Rebecca, well-versed in the art of break-ups, advises him to keep as much normality in his life as possible, so Bucky tries going through the motions. However, despite his best efforts, he finds it virtually impossible to feel normal when everything he sees is a happy memory. Taking Steve around his favorite place had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that the memories are sour every spot has a barbed wire fence and a sign reading </span>
  <b>KEEP OUT</b>
  <span>. At the parade, he feels like an open wound, raw and throbbing in front of the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re standing on my dress,” Connie grits out through her smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifts his weight to free her. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glances at him curiously. They’ve done this parade a thousand times over, and Bucky knows he’s not right; his smile is all wrong, his arms are off, and Connie’s glare gets colder every time he steps on her dress or forgets how to wave. Once the float rolls backstage, he’s quick to unhook himself and jump down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really should have realised that his current state would make him unfit to lift Connie down as usual, but he doesn’t. He reaches up to lift her, and the moment she’s in his arms his left hand buckles under her weight and sends her tumbling onto the tarmac. She cries out, her face contorting in pain as she hits the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crouches beside her to help her up, “Oh my god, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waves his hands away, “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to help again, but she bats him off and pushes herself to her feet. She barely looks at him as she lifts her dress and powers away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” he hears Kitty ask from somewhere behind him as he follows her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Connie, I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Save it for someone who cares,” she snaps over her shoulder. She rolls her gloves down and off to reveal an angry red bruise forming on her right elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your arm…” he reaches out to her, but she shakes herself out of his grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” she insists, but her voice is thick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manages to catch hold of her arm, “Just let me look at it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She jerks away, whirling around, “I said don’t touch me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His blood runs cold at the pain in her voice, so he retreats with his hands up as she stares him down, chest heaving. Cast members have started to stop around them, intrigued by the drama, but Sam pushes through them to place himself between them. “What’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky opens his mouth, but Connie speaks first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your best friend has been an asshole for the past week,” she seethes. He swallows thickly; he’s never seen her like this before. “And now he can’t remember basic choreography, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s apparently trying to fucking kill me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Connie,” Bucky tries, but she interrupts him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a fucking liability when you’re like this!” Sam puts an arm out when she surges forward, holding her back. “You should be grateful I didn’t break anything!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky grinds his teeth so hard he hears it. He’s sick of the people he loves picking fights with him, but he’ll keep his mouth shut this time. He’s done enough damage, he doesn’t want to hurt her further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, if you want to fuck up your own job over some guy, go for it. But I’m not gonna let you fuck up mine.” She shakes herself out of Sam’s grip and storms off in the opposite direction, nursing her elbow in the opposite hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky scrubs his hands over his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looks up again, Sam is watching him patiently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on with you?” he asks, in his gently probing tone. “She’s right, you’ve been seriously off your game.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point, Bucky just feels exhausted to his bones. He shakes his head, and pushes past Sam to get backstage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bucky had known that Pepper would call them into her office, but when it happens it still feels distinctly like being called in to see the principal as they sit in small plastic chairs outside her office, waiting to be sent through. Connie is still in her Cinderella make-up, holding a navy ice pack to her elbow and burning a hole in the opposite wall with her glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says, knowing it’s useless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chews on her bottom lip and keeps her gaze straight ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door to the office opens, and Pepper leans out of it to nod them both through, voice clipped, “Come in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her disappointed stare forces them to avoid her eyes as they pass into her office. She shuts the door behind them and crosses to her desk, crossing her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re both aware of our policies about altercations between cast members.” She’s perfectly mediated and calm, edging on disappointed. “I thought we made them perfectly clear throughout your training. So, you can imagine my surprise when I hear reports that two of my most trustworthy cast members had a screaming match.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky glances at Connie. Her head is bowed, eyes cast firmly on the carpet as her jaw works beneath her skin. This job means the world to her, and she’s barely keeping it together against the possibility of losing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my fault,” he blurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connie looks up. Her mouth moves silently, as if trying and failing to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Pepper replies. “You’re taking responsibility?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connie’s mouth moves again, but Bucky jumps in first. “I take full responsibility. I let my personal life get in the way of my work, and she rightfully called me out for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pepper glances between them, deliberating, and then says, “Fine. Connie, you can go. Consider this a first warning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Connie rasps. She glances back at Bucky once before leaving, the door clicking shut behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pepper slides into her desk chair with a sigh, tapping her manicured nails against her lips for a moment, before saying, “I should fire you on the spot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bows his head and thinks about walking into the Casting Office three years ago, remembers the bated excitement and sense of pride that had burned in his chest for weeks afterwards. The thought of collecting his things and moving onto another job that will never match up burns in a similar way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I like you,” she continues. “And you’ve been a model employee since your first day, which is more than I can say for most of the people who come through here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dares to glance up at her. “You’re not firing me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head, expression vaguely amused. Just that is enough to flood him with relief. “No, I’m not firing you. But I’m giving you a week’s suspension, and a warning. I trust that it won’t happen again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never,” he promises, barely restraining himself from celebrating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” she says with a small smile. “You’re free to go. Get some rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Bucky replies, meaning it more than she could ever understand. He heads to the door, and gets a hand on the handle before she calls after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know you don’t have to go through anything alone,” she assures him sincerely. “If you need anything at all, my door is always open.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how to reply, dumbfounded at the sudden emotion in her voice, so he just smiles, “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, and he takes that as his cue to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connie is still outside the office, pacing the width of the small hallway until she notices him. “Bucky?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so surprised that she’s even regarding him that it takes him a moment to react when she throws her arms around his middle and squeezes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she sighs into his shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets his arms come up around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him and tucking his chin over her head. “It was my fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did she fire you?” she pulls back a little, searching his face for the answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’ve still got a job,” he says, and her shoulders relax. “But she’s suspended me for a week, to ‘get some rest’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you definitely need that,” she says, and her light chuckle lightens the air instantly. She taps his bicep, and they walk side-by-side down the hallway and out onto Main Street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” He knows it’s a bit late, and everything seems to be relatively normal again, but he repeats it anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leans his head against his shoulder, “I know; you wouldn’t have taken the fall for me if you weren’t. I’m sorry, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Word of Bucky and Connie’s post-parade performance spreads quickly, and Steve spends most of his afternoon avoiding the gossip as best he can. It doesn’t help that it’s all Natasha seems to be able to talk about, and every time she does it reminds him that he’s the reason Bucky is feeling off in the first place. He sits in between Natasha and Sam in The Mouse and silently picks his sandwich apart as they relay the story to Carol and Peter, who had been fortunate enough to miss the entire event.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he listens to them recount the tale, his heart aches. He can’t stand what he’s done, and he’s barely slept since that morning Bucky walked out, but he knows there’s no chance of Bucky wanting to speak to him after everything. He’ll be lucky if he ever sees him again, at this rate, given the rules about appropriate cast member conduct. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, he remembers what his mom used to tell him about situations like this, how she always said that honesty is the first sign of strength. He hasn’t been very strong at all so far; he’s been avoiding Bucky for days, and he’s chickened out every time he’s picked up the phone to call and apologise. He can’t do it anymore, it would be ridiculous to keep sitting silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve gotta go,” he announces suddenly, pushing himself up from the bench. The others look up at him curiously, but he lets their stares follow him out of The Mouse and into the hallway. He doesn’t really know where he plans to go after this, so he hovers for an uncertain moment until a head of blonde hair rounds the corner. “Connie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steve?” she asks, and he’s not sure whether she’s confused about his name or why he’s speaking to her; considering they’ve never actually had a conversation. She’s holding an ice pack to her elbow, which he assumes is a result of the fall he’s heard so much about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen Bucky?” He supposes it’ll be a touchy subject for her, but she doesn’t seem angry, just somewhat pitiful. His heart seizes. He’s too late; Bucky’s already been fired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, he just left,” she says. “He’s been given a week’s suspension.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he sighs with relief. A week’s suspension isn’t terrible; at least he hasn’t caused Bucky to lose his job entirely. “Well, thanks anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles politely, and he turns to trudge back to The Mouse, already planning to just bite the bullet and call Bucky later, before she calls after him. “Actually, wait! I think I might know where he is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Considering how long he’s worked at Disney, Steve has never thought to explore the castle in much depth. He’s always assumed it’s mostly a facade, rather than a fully fledged building, but as he follows Connie’s directions through the building he realises it’s far more detailed than he’d originally thought. As per her instructions, he passes right by the empty restaurant area and unhooks a velvet rope that cuts off a small staircase. Up the stairs, where his steps echo, he finds a tight service corridor which is lined with ornate windows on one side. They must be right at the back of the castle, as they have an uninhibited view of Fantasyland. On the sill, forehead resting against the glass, sits Bucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buck,” the fond nickname slips out the moment he sees him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He expects some kind of big reaction, but Bucky simply glances up at him, looking withered and exhausted. His voice is quiet, bordering on a whisper, “Hey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Steve replies, matching his volume. “Can I sit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Bucky nods, and glances back out of the window as Steve sits on the other side of the windowsill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Steve says apprehensively. He’s been planning what he’d say for days, but now that he’s here, with Bucky right in front of him looking so desperately sad, none of it feels right. “I should have told you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you should’ve,” Bucky replies flatly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just…” Steve starts, and then pulls back to reconsider. “Do you know what my original job was? When I started working here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky shakes his head, “I guess you’re gonna tell me, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s being hostile on purpose, but Steve supposes he deserves that. It’s really not the worst way he could act right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was a face character,” he says, and Bucky does look at him then, surprised. “Yeah, probably no surprise that I was Peter Pan. That’s how I know Peggy -- the woman from the tea shop in Epcot -- she was my Wendy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you quit?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t sound exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>enthralled</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but the fact he’s engaging in conversation is enough to spur Steve on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mom got sick, real sick, about a year in. I tried to juggle looking after her and working here, but it was too much. I should have known it would be, but I’d wanted to work here so bad my whole life, I couldn’t just give it up, not for anything.” He can feel his throat starting to squeeze the words, and he coughs a little to clear it before continuing. He doesn’t want to cry, or make this some kind of guilt trip. “I didn’t even take time off when she died, I just kept working. Thought that continuing to make people happy would make me happy, eventually, but I lasted about two weeks before I had a complete breakdown. I put in for a transfer to ride operations, and here I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky’s mouth is open in a soft ‘O’ shape, eyes searching Steve’s face. “Is that why…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was such a dick to you? Yeah,” Steve glances down at his lap. He’s, honestly, embarrassed about the way he’d treated Bucky. “You came not long after I transferred, and I was so jealous of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky scoffs, “Jealous? I find that hard to believe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck yeah, I was jealous!” Steve replies. “You were everything I tried to be and wasn’t! So happy and handsome and good at your job. You just reminded me constantly of how much I failed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you failed,” Bucky says sincerely, brown eyes meeting Steve’s. “And thanks for the compliment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing that Bucky had been expecting was for Steve to find him up here. At first, he doesn’t know what he feels. Anger, frustration, upset that Steve’s found his safe space and is infiltrating it like everything else. But, eventually, he settles on being relieved that he’s not alone. And when Steve opens up to him, he’s just grateful that he’s willing to, and confused as to how he didn’t know it all before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches out between them, and takes Steve’s hand in his. Tentative, apprehensive, comforted by the familiar warmth of Steve’s skin. Steve looks down at them, and tightens his grip. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t think he’s done anything to warrant a thank you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not saying you’re sorry about my mom,” Steve replies. “You get that a lot when you’re an orphan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get that a lot when you’re the son of a senator,” Bucky replies sincerely. “But for... different reasons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve laughs in a way that Bucky hasn’t heard for so long, and it feels like coming home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really am sorry,” Steve reiterates. “When I heard you on the phone I just froze, I was so thrown off by the realisation that you were actually human that I didn’t know what to do with myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I regret to inform you that I am, in fact, human,” Bucky jibes, just grateful that they’re back. It will take a while for him to totally trust Steve again, he knows that, but this is a pretty good start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a sound like a gunshot and the room fills with light, and Bucky jolts violently at the sudden interruption. Steve laughs again, and tugs him lightly into his chest. His smell encapsulates Bucky at all sides, and he rests his cheek against the soft fabric of Steve’s t-shirt, staring out into the dark sky over Fantasyland, illuminated by the fireworks that explode from all around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We forgot about the fireworks,” Steve says against his hair, voice amused and melodic. Bucky can feel his voice rumbling against his cheek, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wraps his arms around Steve’s middle and leans in - in - </span>
  <em>
    <span>in </span>
  </em>
  <span>until all he’s all he can smell and see and feel and it’s still not enough. He pulls him even closer, like he’s trying to slip right into his skin. He’s been getting under Steve’s skin for years, for all the wrong reasons, but this time it’s right; he belongs, he’s welcomed. Steve lets him in, silently saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘you can get under my skin all you want, as long as you don't break anything’</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Bucky won't, he silently promises, he won’t hurt Steve for as long as he lives if he just gets to hold him like this.</span>
</p><p><span>He’s so enraptured that he hardly notices when Steve slips one delicate hand under his jaw and tilts his head up and kisses him, hard and soft and too little and too much all at once. Even the sounds of the fireworks all around them are dulled as all of his senses zero in on </span><em><span>Steve</span></em><span>, and when he draws back, Steve’s angled features are illuminated every color of the rainbow and when he smiles</span> <span>it’s brighter than any firework show he’s ever seen.</span></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is what magic is.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And that's all, folks! Sorry for the late posting on this chapter. Thank you so much to <a href="https://twitter.com/softestbuck">my incredible artist</a> once again, my amazing <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writingstoriesinmyhead">beta</a>, and the entire NASBB mod team and all of the other writers who have all been so supportive and formed such an incredible community throughout this Bang. And, of course, thank YOU so much for reading!<br/>Okay, it's time for me to go sleep for 70 years.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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